
Class 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 



THE OLD HOME 



The 
OLD SCRAP BOOK 



BY 

SUSAN M. SWALES 

(ERNEST BELL) 



SIPS 



NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 






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Copyright, 1919 
By GRACE S. ROLSHOVEN 



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Go 

THE GIRLS AND BOYS 
OF THE OLD HOME 

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 



FOKEWOKD 

Among the pear and apple trees stood the old home. Its 
windows and its porches were embowered in clematis and wild 
grape vines ; its walls were buried in ivy ; its rooms were large 
and lofty and filled with the happy laughter of boys and girls ; 
and now like last year's nest it is deserted. In the beautiful 
quiet of God's acre sleep the Father and Mother ; the boys and 
girls have gone to new homes ; business houses have crowded 
it to its very doors; automobiles and street cars rush by every 
minute; the beautiful old orchard is destroyed, and the house 
is abandoned. 

Among the accumulations of so many years an old trunk was 
found. In it, still in their time-stained old scrap-book, undis- 
turbed for nearly forty years were found many of these poems 
and stories. They were written when the clouds of war en- 
shrouded the land ; when fields were untilled and fruit ungath- 
ered ; when " the mourners went about the streets," and now 
with these added poems of later years like the fragrance of the 
old garden wafted to us by a gentle breeze may they pleasantly 
recall that vanished time of romance and of our old home. 



CONTENTS 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 

PAGE 

Our Union of Brothers 3 

The Dying Soldier 4 

For 's Album 5 

Forgetting He Is Dead 6 

Suffer and Be Strong 6 

The Catastrophe ... 8 

The Graduates' Farewell 9 

The Rain 10 

In Memoriam 11 

"Birdie" 12 

Summer Morning 13 

" Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep "... 14 

Finem Respice 16 

Tokens 18 

Smiles and Tears 20 

The Journey 21 

To Gertrude 25 

Flower Teachings 26 

Having a Picture Taken 27 

Little Flirt! 28 

Vigils 29 

Asking Alms 31 

Dead and Gone 32 

The Kingdom Under the Sea 33 

Queries 35 

Bud-Making 37 

Cherie's Kiss 37 

Making Ready for our Journey 39 

To Kittie 40 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Lines on the Death of Fannie Seward 41 

Trip Lightly 43 

Somebody's Darling 44 

Ann Arbor 45 

To C 46 

A Valentine , . . 47 

" Only a Woman's Footprint " 49 

The Hearth and Home 50 

Memories 51 

Love's Halo 52 



POEMS WRITTEN IN LATER LIFE 

The Winds 54 

Turn, My Darling 55 

Dedicated to the Home Guards 55 

The Old Year 56 

Our Little Angel 57 

Good Night 58 

" Be not ye Troubled " 58 

Magdalene 59 

Ailsinore 60 

Graduating Song 61 

On the Death of Mr. Legget 61 

My Wish To-night 62 

A King Uncrowned 63 

The Sparrow's Complaint 64 

Song for the G. A. R 65 

Slumber Song on the St. Clair 66 

Margaret 66 

Under the Ivy 67 

Out in that Unknown Country 68 

Tolstoi Is Dead 69 

Beside Her Mother's Knee 70 

The Flower Girl 70 

The New Woman 71 

To Reverend and Mrs. S 72 

Dedicated to the Old Horse 72 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Housewife's Guide 73 

Written for C. D. P 74 

The Blue Iris 74 

To a Ely Found Dead in a Sugar Bowl 75 

The Clover and I 76 

Somewhere 77 

A Plea 78 

To the Alumni of B. F. A 78 

Pain 79 

Spring Song 80 

Partridge Song 80 

Christmas Day 81 

The Mystery of the Dawn 82 

For Me 82 

To " Vee " with a Pair of Slippers 83 

How Quiet are the Works of God 84 

My Youth's Farewell 84 

The Mission of Pain 85 

EARLY PROSE WORKS 

Our Language 86 

Coronations 87 

Seraphina Fairbanks 91 

Almost Shipwrecked 95 

Taken Prisoner 102 

What's in a Voice 110 

Poor Maggie McLain 120 

My Darling 128 

The Twin Spies 134 

Ladies Promenade 141 

Kittie Clyde's Hero 144 

The Heroic Many 150 

Chd3by, The Contraband 154 

The Joke Turned 174 

A Vision and its Lesson 181 

The Gold Bracelet 186 

Miscarried but Carried 195 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Grace's Thanksgiving 204 

Prue's Ruse 211 

Renting a Husband 222 

Ernest Bell's " Reasons " . . . . 238 

Under the Hills 244 

Over the River 251 

The Graceful Pen of Ernest Bell thus Sketches our Street 259 

My Troubadour 262 

Fate 267 

Tried 275 

Down the Dee 283 

Only Wait, Susie! .289 

The Pillar of Cloud 296 

Tiny Krook 303 

Under the Falls 312 

Katy's Romance 315 

LATER PROSE WORKS 

Sunday School Convocation 322 

Ghostly Visitants 

Dr. Henry's Story 325 

Dr. Scott's Story 328 

Janie's Tramp 333 

Rosie and Her God-Mother 362 

The Hermit of Ahwahna 364 

The Cigarette Twins 466 



THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 



THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 

OUR UNION OF BROTHERS 

'Neath the flag of Our Union for years we have rested, 
Together we've cherished each glorious star; 

Together the turmoils, the storms, we have breasted, 
Nor dreamed we that aught our fair Union could mar. 

One fair band of brothers — each other relieving, 

In troubles and trials, in dangers of war ; 
'Neath the wide-waving banner each brother believing — 

And trusting so truly each bright-beaming star. 

Yet still wave these star-gems o'er scenes as endearing, 
O'er mountains and streamlets as lovely and fair, 

But a soft-gliding serpent our Eden is nearing, 
And longeth to bury his poisoned fangs there. 

Oh, unthinking brothers ! your troubles forgetting, 
Come join ye together, in heart and with hand, 

So ward off the serpent ; the danger besetting, 
And leave our fair Eden a holier land. 

Dear star-banded brothers, so rash and unthinking, 
Desert not thy posts as the danger draws nigh ; 

Stretch forth hands of friendship — now firm and unshrinking, 
In love and in unison, Conquer, or Die. 

3 



4 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Our Father in Heaven will give us his blessings, 
The Star-spangled banner triumphantly wave; 

And each to the other his failures confessing 

We form a new league 'round our Washington's grave. 

January 20th, 1861. High School. 



THE DYING SOLDIER 

" Poor David Mercer — no man ever lived more brave, more generous, 
more devoted to his friends and his flag. His right arm was shot off about 
half way between the elbow and shoulder. He came to me in the woods im- 
mediately back of the firing, and whilst he held his musket and his right 
arm in his left hand, he begged me to cut it off, as it was so heavy he 
couldn't carry his musket, and when loss of blood forced him to drop his 
gun, he asked for a revolver to continue the fight. Just before his death, 
some one spoke of his dying in defense of the old flag, when he faintly at- 
tempted to sing ' The Star Spangled Banner.' One line was almost com- 
pleted, when his brave soul went to its God." (Captain J. C. Hazlett's 
letter. ) 

Upon the bloody battlefield — beneath a rugged tree, 
A noble-hearted soldier stood, reclining wearily; 

One arm, completely shattered, was hanging at his side, 

Yet still to hold his musket, the brave young soldier tried. 

And when the Captain saw him, amid the dark affray, 
He pointed to his severed arm, and faintly tried to say ; 

" Look here a moment Captain — cut off this useless arm, 
I cannot hold my musket to do the Rebels harm." 

Until his frame grew weary, and faintly came his breath, 
The soldier with his one brave arm dealt to the Rebels death ; 

And when the heavy musket fell from his nerveless hand, 
He asked for a revolver to fight the Rebel band. 

Amid the thickest of the fight the noble soldier stood, 
Until he fell from f aintness and heavy loss of blood ; 

And when his brow grew dewy, and the brightness left his eye, 
The soldiers gathered 'round him to see their comrade die. 

When someone spoke of Freedom's flag a faint glow 
flushed his cheek, 



POEMS WRITTEN I1ST GIRLHOOD 5 

And his pale lips were parted, as if he fain would speak; 
And when the soldiers listened to catch the sound they gave, 
He faintly sung — " The Star Spangled Banner, long may 
it wave." 

Ah! when the cold lips trembled to form their farewell word, 
A blessing on our Banner, was all the soldiers heard; 

It was his dying whisper, and doubly blessed we know 
Is our Dear Flag since one brave heart has loved it so. 

And tho' to hear his voice, or clasp his hand is not given, 
Yet have we one more spirit now, before the throne of 
Heaven, 

And well we know that our lost Mercer, bravest of the Brave, 
Will call down blessings on the holy cause he died to save. 

July 17, 1861. 



EOR 'S ALBUM 

Darling — I would treasure 
Life's sweet roses all for thee, 
I would hope that paths of flowers 
Ever more thine own might be. 
But I know that God has ordered 
That which seemeth to Him best, 
Darkest clouds with sunlight bordered, 
Days of anguish, nights of rest. 

May He guard thee, may He guide thee, 

By His love in every ill, 

In thy joy be close beside thee 

In thy griefs be near thee still. 

His the strength that shall uphold thee 

Through this weary night of strife, 

His the arms that shall enfold thee 

In the morning dawn of life. 

October 10, 1862. 



THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 



FORGETTING HE IS DEAD 

I sit beside my casement 

To listen for his tread; 
To hearken to his merry tones, 

Forgetting he is dead, 

And at the close of even, 
I raise my humble prayer ; 

I pray kind Heaven to watch my boy, 
Forgetting he is there. 

And at first peep of dawning 

I hie to little bed, 
To kiss the slumber from his brow, 

Forgetting he is dead. 

And on last Christmas morning, 
Like frighten' d bird I fled, 

To wish him " Merry Christmas," 
Forgetting he is dead. 

But I think of him at even, 

When the long, long day has fled : 

Ah ! then I feel too truly 
Our darling boy is dead. 



The City Times, 1863. 



SUFFER AND BE STRONG 

Not always will the sunshine 
Of joys your pathway throng, 
But when you grope in darkness 
Oh, suffer and be strong. 
Not always will the shadow 
Envelope you in gloom, 
Beneath the deepest hedges 
The brightest violets bloom. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 

From out the direst trials 
The soul comes forth again 
Not weary now, but stronger, 
And finer for the pain; 
And the strange fires of genius 
Grow yet more strangely bright, 
As stars show all their glory 
But in the darkest night. 

Our glorious bard of England 

His pinions never tried 

Till God had drawn a veil between 

His soul and all beside ; 

Till he had closed his eyelids 

And given a poet's heart, 

And through the world him, weary, led 

Of it, yet not a part. 

Though he but guessed the plumage 
Of birdlings from their song, 
Though for him the sun ne'er shone 
Yet suffering he was strong. 
And from his mind's dark prison 
He gave us gleams again 
Of light that lingered in his heart 
Thro' all those years of pain. 

And in these bitter trials 

When furious plagues were hurled 

He gave his hand to God who'd sealed 

Himself from all the world. 

So tenderly He guided him, 

A blind man through the throng 

That, mighty in his Father's might, 

He suffered, yet was strong. 

March, 1863. 



THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 



THE CATASTROPHE 

All Nature had in quiet wrapped 

Herself in peaceful sleep, 

And naught there seemed upon the Earth 

That would not silence keep. 

And Mr. Muggins, happy now, 

With bedspread wrapped around him 

Resigned himself with quiet joy 

To Morpheus' chains which bound him. 

But hark — a sound within his room, 
A sound yet faint — but dire, 
He started up — he clutched the clothes 
And drew them up yet higher. 
But all in vain those heavy clothes, 
The sound was still in hearing, 
Poor Muggins crept yet lower down 
Hid head and ears — so fearing — . 

Still came the sound — but nearer now — 

And with a fearful boldness, 

And Muggins felt adown his limbs 

A chill of bitter coldness. 

That sound again ! In desperate fear 

He brought himself to battle, 

But as the clothes were pushed away 

Each joint began to rattle. 

His right hand grasped a pistol found 

Beneath his weary head, 

He grasped — and then in trembling tones 

And halting accents said — 

" Who are you now ! Oh, please to leave 

For I don't want to shoot. 

So go, for if you don't you know 

'Tis you that makes me do it." 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 

He paused a moment — listened — then 

The sound was getting nearer; 

Cold blood stood still in all his veins 

His life appeared then dearer. 

He closed his eyes, drew in his breath 

And then — the pistol sounded — 

And in the moment's glare he saw 

A " skeeter " falling wounded ! 



June 28, 1863. 



THE GRADUATES' FAKE WELL 

i 
Gently as the stars of Heaven 

Vanish from the coming dawn, 
So the joys of childhood leave us 

As we journey, — one by one, — 
As we journey from the dawning 

Deep into the day of life, 
Leaving childhood's dewy morning, 

Entering woman's noon of strife. 

ii 
Linger, — linger, — let us linger, 

Ere the clouds of parting come, 
Shutting out the golden sun-light 

By the shadows of its gloom; 
Sadly, sadly now, and slowly, 

Must we hear the bitter knell, 
Flooding every heart with sorrow, 

Tolling forth its sad — " Farewell." 

in 
Oh, farewell ! farewell, dear schoolmates, 

Souls must cling the closer now, 
And this bitter hour of parting 

Leave its trace on lip and brow. 



10 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

But in future fields Elysian 
Once again we hope to meet, 

And the links which here are severed, 
There shall a chain complete. 

June 25, 1863. 



THE KAIN 

Merrily, mournfully, pattering still, 

Falling like dew on the flowers, 
Singing, and sighing, and moaning at will, 

Falleth the rain all the hours; 
Dancing so merrily over the eaves, 

Falling like music's refrain, 
Hiding its gems in the heart of the leaves, 

Merrily falleth the rain. 

Falling and falling cheerily still, 

It kisses the lilies' white breast; 
Over the meadows it wanders at will, 

Lulling the blue-bells to rest. 
Merrily, cheerily falleth the rain 

Over the country and town, 
Like the soft murmur of music's refrain, 

The fairy-like rain cometh down. 

The rain, the rain, the beautiful rain, 

Sadly and sweetly it falls, 
To the souls of the dead, where the grass groweth green, 

In sweet spirit voices it calls; 
It makes, with its murmurs of grief, 

The flowers to blow o'er each head, 
And by its sweet treasures of rose-bud and leaf 

Makes lovely the homes of the dead, 

The rain, the rain, the beautiful rain, 
The merrily, mournfully falling, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIKLHOOD 11 

The echo of footsteps that fall not again, 

Strange voices to earth ever calling; 
The whispers of magic that maketh the buds, 

In beauty and frailty to grow, 
The message of mercy to man from his God, 

Proclaiming " All peace be below." 

June 29, 1863. 



IN MEMOEIAM 

Charles E. Hazlett, 1st Lieutenant, U. S. A., commanding Battery D, 5th 
Corps, U. S. Artillery, was killed on Rock Hill, at the Battle of Gettysburg, 
Pa., on Thursday, July 2nd, 1863, in the 25th year of his age, struck by an 
unseen bullet in the forehead. He fell forward upon the breast of a dying 
friend to whom he was ministering, and breathed his life away without a 
word or groan. 

Weep for the lovely who've perished in beauty, 
Weep for the buds which have withered in bloom, 

But for the brave who have died doing duty 
Bear them in glory, thro' tears, to their tomb. 

One of our number — a brave hearted soldier, 
Left us in sorrow when danger appeared, 

In that brave army there was not a bolder, 

None lived more nobly, none died more revered. 

On the red plain of the dark field of battle 
Aiding a friend who was dying, he bent, 

Catching his words, 'mid the bullet's sharp rattle, 
When the death angel, to call him, was sent. 

He heard not the pinions, the angel was nearing, 
His labor accomplished — his life work was o'er, 

Fallen on the breast of the friend he was cheering 
He slumbered, to waken to toil never more. 

What needs of accents, shall the story's repeating, 
Bring to the fore-head its halo of light. 



12 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Start the still pulses that lately were beating, 

Make those glazed eyes once again brave and light? 

Gone from us ! gone from us ! this is the tolling, 
Gone, to return to the Earth, never more, 

This is the dirge that forever is rolling 
Up to our hearts from Eternity's shore. 

Aye but tho' angels sweet garlands are throwing 
Down from the gates of the city of love 

Garlands of hope and their perfume in flowing, 

Brings balm to the wounded, " Our Hazlett's above." 

July 29, 1863. 

" BIRDIE " 

Little birdie, list a moment 
Listen closely — don't you hear 
That the rushing, roaring river 
Of the past is drawing near ? 
Swift 'twill bear upon its bosom 
Present joys to which we cling, 
Little buds of purest pleasures 
And for these 'twill nothing bring. 

We must lose these, little Birdie, 
But my bird must fly to me 
Fold its weary wings, then gladly 
Cheer me with its pleasant glee. 
Little daisy, you will flourish 
Sweetly in my lowly home, 
Lily-of-the-valley — lily — 
Little daisy, won't you come? 

June 19, 1863. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 13 



SUMMER MORNING 



Darling, the morn is bright 



Gleaming with softened light, 
Thro' silver clouds. 
Softly the wood birds drum, 
Laz'ly the insects hum, 
Wheeling in clouds. 

Softly the summer breeze 
Rustles the poplar trees 
Over the way. 
Touches the bird on nest 
Ruffles her downy breast 
Gently to-day. 

Even the languid air 
Seemeth too faint to bear 
Roses' perfume. 
And the sweet roses stand 
Half blown on every hand 
Too faint to bloom. 

See, borne along the sky 

Dreaming the light clouds lie 

Drifting away. 

All things are indolent 

All nature somnolent 

This summer's day. 

And in a languid sort 
Half earnest, half in sport 
Write I this rhyme. 
For every summer tone 
Brings back to me your own 
In vanished time. 

When you and I sat here 
Watching the poplars, dear, 



14: THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Over the way. 
Talking in careless chime 
Yet loving all the time 
As I, today. 

Darling, best have a care 
My heart may faint to bear 
Your love's perfume. 
Yet weigh it down, my sweet, 
And for your love complete 
Make it a tomb. 

Drifting, I slowly sail 
Down thro' the azure pale 
Fearing no storm. 
As leaflets lie at rest 
Floating on streamlet's breast 
Restfully on, 

On to the ocean, wide 
Borne by the silver tide 
Surely tho' slow. 
So drift I to the sea 
Of love's infinity 
Loving thee so. 



Ernest Bell. 



From my window, July 2, 1864. 



" NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP 

See the battle rages 'round him, 

With the dead on every side; 
Loosed the silver chord which bound him, 

He is dying as they died, 
See the ruby life-blood gushing, 

Listen to the quick drawn breath, 
Even his great spirit hushing 

To the greater one of death. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 15 

'Mid the groanings of the dying, 

'Mid the shoutings of the fray; 
Boom of cannon, shriek and crying, 

Can you tell me what they say? 
Those poor lips were only saying 

Some sweet words which made him weep — 
Words his mother taught him, praying 

" Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Time had been when those rude fingers 

Close had clasped at mother's knee, 
And her presence-halo lingers 

Still around that infancy. 
Oh how kind she was, and tender, 

How she taught her boy to pray, 
Little dreaming he would send her 

Thanks for it on such a day. 

Coldly the death dew is pressing 

On the brow so often pressed 
By his mother's hand in blessing, 

Ere he sought his nightly rest, 
Oh that she cannot be near him, 

Though he calls her o'er and o'er, 
Oh that she can never hear him, 

Though he calls her ever more. 

Now the weak hands clasp each other, 

As they did long years ago, 
When he knelt beside his mother 

In the evening's firelight glow; 
And the eyes with tears are filling, 

Though they never more shall weep; 
Speak the lips, though coldly thrilling, 

" Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Softly, with a child's sweet trusting, 
'Mid the dying and the dead, 



10 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Where the swords in blood were rusting, 
Sank the soldier's weary head. 

Guarded by the God of battles, 

Prayed the " Lord his soul to keep," 

'Mid the roaring and the rattle, 

Then he " laid him down to sleep." 

And the God above him bending, 

Surely knew the voice again, 
Though this time it was ascending, 

From the battle on the plain. 
Knew — and for the Savior's glory, 

Whom he prayed his soul to keep — 
Let the soldier, brave and gory, 

Rest him in a quiet sleep. 

February 1865. 

FINEM RESPICE 

Once a fond eagle was building her nest, 

Said she, " I will have it dry," 
So she chose for its place a mountain crest 

That rose to the summer sky ; 
And she feathered it warm from her own tender breast, 

That her young might the softer lie. 

And the waves of a foreign sea dashed o'er 

Many a rock on the coral strand; 
And they lashed in their fury the out-stretched shore, 

Till the foam lay white on the glistening sand ; 
Still the eagle in peace unmolested could soar 

To her nest in its eyrie sagaciously planned. 

Then the rain poured down and the furious storm 
Broke over her nest in the mountain high; 

But she opened out her pinions so large and so warm, 
And kept her young eagles safe and dry ; 

And so they were guarded and shielded from harm 
By the One watching over who heareth their cry. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 17 

By strange metamorphosis — one pitiful day 
The mother's pet eaglet was changed to a snake, 

And it coiled round the nest in a serpent-like way, 
Until the frail fabric was ready to break ; 

It seized the young eagles, its brothers, for prey, 
And its mother's own life attempted to take. 

Oh, she who had guarded her nestlings so well, 

That none of the elements boded them ill — 
The winds when they rose, or the storms when they fell — 

Had not thought to guard 'gainst her favorite's will, 
Yet more than all elements, hard to repel, 

Than winds or than waters more dangerous still. 

With kindness she pleaded, the fond mother bird ; 

These prayers he received with his ugliest hiss ; 
He struck with his fangs for the councils he heard; 

Then the way she resorted to conquer was this : 
She struck with her beak, which was sharp as a sword, 

She struck with her talons, which came not amiss. 

So the battle went on 'tween mother and son ; 

The serpent his venomous poison expressed; 
Of all her young nestlings this favorite one 

The mother had of tenest warmed at her breast ; 
And now she must conquer — the battle is done, 

But many young eagles are dead in the nest. 

And so she must conquer — our eagle must reign ; 

Be queen of her nest though the loved traitor die! 
Oh, would that such love could his passions restrain, 

And again in the nest he would lovingly lie ; 
But we know the serpent will not change again — 

As such he has lived, and as such he will die. 

Our Union must conquer — the rebel be hurled 
Away from the nest ; the snake must be dead, 

And the Star-spangled banner in glory unfurled. 
The bruise must be made in the serpent's head, 



18 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

And the white doves of peace shall brood over the world, 
When traitors have perished and treason has fled ! 

March 16, 1865. New York Weekly. 



TOKENS 

There's a cap hanging up in the entry, 

An overcoat lies in the hall, 
And a sword with its scabbard blood-rusty, 

Hangs up by the cap on the wall. 
Oh, these saddest of tokens have borne me, 

Like the waves of the ocean, away, 
To the times that have come and have passed me 

And vanished this many a day. 

To the time when the cap sat so jauntily, 

On the short, sunny clusters of curls, 
And the eyes 'neath its brim grew so dusky. 

When saying " good-bye " to the " girls " ; 
When the overcoat held in its wrapping 

The dearest of forms to us all, 
And the sword then so bright in its scabbard, 

Was not hanging there on the wall. 

JSTow the autumn froze into the winter, 

And the winter soon melted to spring, 
And the mails brought us dearest of tidings, 

The rarest that letters could bring ; 
There were messages plenty for " mother," 

And kisses all 'round to the " girls," 
And once, lest the kisses be lonely, 

He sent us each one of his curls. 

Though the season passed brightly, it shadowed 
The brow of our mother with care ; 

And a few silver threads stole in softly 
To light up the dark in her hair ; 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 19 

Though her smiles grew more patiently tender, 

She lovingly cheered up the " girls," 
For no letters came from the absent — 

No messages, kisses, or curls. 

But at last came a stranger to see us — 

A soldier in uniform too — 
He carried a sword and a package, 

And saddest of tidings, we knew. 
" With his last words he sent these to mother," 

The stranger said, brushing his eyes, 
" He fell in the heat of the battle, 

" And there on the battle-field lies." 

" He said : ' Tell the girls to love mother, 

And say that my last thought was pain 
For the dearest of dear ones I'm leaving, 

Though hoping to meet them again ! ' " 
Then the stranger put down on the table 

The sword and the package he bore, 
And went away, leaving night's darkness 

Where day shone a moment before. 

Oh, the brow with its beautiful whiteness, 

And clustering ringlets of hair, 
Cannot need, nor want for a shelter 

The cap which he used once to wear. 
Now the overcoat lies in the entry, 

For chrysalis-like, in its birth, 
The beautiful soul of our darling 

Has cast off the garments of earth. 

Oh, we know that he never will hasten 

To battle at bugle's loud call, 
And the sword which he grasped for his country 

May rust on its nail on the wall ; 
God grant that the lives he has taken, 

Since taken for country and right, 
May not count as a crime in the judgment, 

Or make his bright crown the less bright. 



20 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Oh, the dear dusty cap in the entry ! 

Oh, overcoat out in the hall ! 
And sword now useless in its scabbard, 

As it hangs by the cap on the wall. 
How they bring up the form of our darling, 

And the days which have vanished from me, 
As the shells, though removed from the ocean, 

Still murmur the sound of the sea ! 

March 25, 1865. 



SMILES AND TEARS 

Oh, I laugh and I sigh, and I weep awhile, 

Like the ficklest of April weather ; 
I chase off the tears with the sunniest smile, 

And I laugh and I cry both together ; 
For a blessing has come, and its beautiful price, 

Like a bird in my heart softly nestles ; 
But a trial has come, and low on my knees 

My heart in its agony wrestles. 

A blessing and trial ! one breath speaks them both, 

But Oh ! how they differ in feeling ! 
My soul bendeth down so reluctantly, loth 

To take up the sorrow with healing. 
Oh, my heart in its gratitude looketh above, 

Like lily-buds after the rain. 
; lit it bendeth again 'neath the loss of its love, 

And almost courts death in its pain. 

The haughty are fallen — and conquers the right ; 

Joy rises sun-like o'er the nation, 
And every heart lifts its tribute to-night 

Of thanks for its country's salvation; 
But Oh ! from my heart and my hearth there is one 

That forever I know must be missing — 
The darlingest brother, the tenderest son 

That ever was barred in prison. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 21 

So young and so handsome, so full of fresh youth, 

That his heart was forever out-singing ; 
His eyes looked in yours with an immortal truth, 

And his laugh filled your heart with its ringing. 
Oh, the close clinging curls on his beautiful head, 

We all were so fond of their beauty, 
That he took them to war, he laughingly said, 

To see that they did their whole duty. 

And the eyes, and the curls, and the laugh of our boy, 

They were all put in prison together, 
And his eyes, and his curls, and his laughter and joy, 

Faded out like stars in dark weather : 
And he died — he, our sunlight, our beautiful pride, 

Eor the love of his country and nation — 
By the slowest and sternest of all deaths he died — 

In prison — of utter starvation. 

Oh, my heart may weave out the bright woof of its joy, 

For our dear peace's happy returning, 
But the threads of deep sadness, in thought of our boy, 

Must change it somewhat into mourning. 
Oh, then here are smiles for my dear native land, 

And here are the tears for our losses : 
A grief and a joy must go hand in hand, 

And crowns only blossom near crosses. 

Ann Arbor, July 5, 1865. 



THE JOURNEY 

A wandering Honorary Member of the Nameless Club looking over a 
budget of old letters comes upon an extract from the chronicles of the 
nation of the De-ga-ya-yoh, setting forth that in the year of our Lord 
eighteen sixty-three on the twenty-third day of the seventh month " a 
stranger from the land which lyeth to the Southe " was adopted into the 
nation by the unanimous vote of its members. 

The quaint and genial chapter evokes from the buried past a memory of 
the few but pleasant occasions on which it was the stranger's happy fortune 
to meet the nation around the social board, and with it arise questions of 
the present — How is it with the nation ? Do its sons and daughters still 



22 THE OLD SCBAP BOOK 

gather around the council fire? Who shall answer? Spirits of air, float- 
ing to the music of your own low song across the blue waves of Erie, can 
ye tell ? Low hanging clouds, white as the curtains which shut in a dream- 
ing angel, have you in your ever changing panorama no image of them? 
All are dumb. Avaunt, false Spirits! We will ourselves look into the 
matter. 

Fancy, prepare thy swift car 
We'll ride to-night, your lustrous star 
That in the east makes paler day 
Shall guide and light our pathless way. 

Away now joy-ful riding, 
Both time and space dividing 
So merrily we're gliding 
Away, away, away ! 

The bright waves kiss the glistening sand, 
Faint odors fill the autumn air ; 
I feel the night's magnetic hand 
Fall soft and cool on brow and hair. 

Now fade all sounds of Earth's poor strife, 
The restless heart forgets its pain 
And all the tangled ends of life 
Are knit in one harmonious chain. 

Up through the misty curtains dim 
Float liquid murmurs from the deep 
Like broken strains from some grand hymn 
Hummed by a dreamer in his sleep. 

And now we glide past dusky isles 
Whence summer lingeringly departs, 
Whose eager grapes have drunk her smiles 
And hold them prisoned in their hearts. 

In lake side towns the distant lights 
Make meteor gleams low down the sky, 
And beacons flash from friendly lights 
Their warning of a danger nigh. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 23 

I know the tower on yonder pier, 
The light that gleams beyond, I know, 
Stop fancy, — now, my vision clear 
Descries the streets of Buffalo. 

I know a room in a building fair 
Not very far from the public square ; 
Choice old spirits are gathered there 
Having a jolly good time. 

I'll peep in at the window high, 
They'll never guess that I am by ; 
It's rare good fun to play Paul Pry, 
And peeping surely is no crime. 

Well, well it grows late, 

There is still the debate, 

But fancy is weary and home I must fly, 

Or I may run afoul 

Of some wandering owl 

And wreck my frail car in the deeps of the sky. 

It is the season of farewells, 
O'er lake and wood a chorus swells 
Oh, fairy voices, chanting low 
A refrain full of tender woe. 

Farewell, farewell, sweet summer lies 

With pale, dumb lips and veiled eyes ; 

The buds she latest kissed to bloom 

Woke only to adorn her tomb. 

To sweetest music in her praise 

The birds that sit the long bright days 

Refuse another love to woo, 

And bids the changing world " Adieu." 

Earewell, the battle clouds are riven, 
Peace lifts her radiant face to Heaven, 
And from the Southland voices come 



24 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Calling her banished children home. 

noble Northland, true as fair 

1 go, but in my heart I wear 
Such pictures of thy regal grace 
As even death may not efface. 

And though, when next year's birds piping clear 

Wake to new life the 'tranced year, 

My feet shall tread the distant shores 

Where mighty Mississippi pours 

His amber tide ; my spirit, free 

Shall wander back to dwell with thee. 

To haunt again thy leafy glades 

Where all day long the bright cascades 

Lured by the river's witching call 

Go flashing down the rocky hall. 

Once more to dream the hours away 
On slopes where lights and shadows play, 
And drink with ever fresh delight 
The nectar of thy beauty bright. 

But not alone the mystic spell 
Which cunning nature weaves so well, 
Of emerald hills and water-falls 
And forest full of summer calls, 
Shall draw me back, true hearted band 
Who welcomed with free out-stretched hand 
The exile wandering far and alone, 
And wrote her name among your own, 
Your generous trust and kindness make 
A link that distance cannot break. 
Farewell, but when you keep your feast 
Think something of your spirit guest, 
And when you pledge the absent, feel, 
She pledges you with faith as leal. 

Farewell ! May every breeze that blows 
Shower blessings pure as winter snows, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 25 

And triumph crown your every aim 

Till " nameless " means " Success " and " Fame." 

Detroit, September 25, 1865. 



TO GERTRUDE 

Forty years ago, my darling, 

When the Christmas wreath was made, 
When beneath the snow-clad forest, 

Thou and I together strayed, 
Dost remember how we lingered 

From the cheerful Christmas band ? 
Each was all in all to other, 

As we wandered, hand in hand. 

Little Gertrude, let me call you 

By my favorite name of then ; 
Though that then so full of gladness 

Never more may come again. 
Dear, your eyes were full of laughter, 

Fairest were you of the girls ; 
And I know I thought the sunbeams 

Had got tangled in your curls. 

I remember well the evening — 

That same glowing Christmas night; 
Then I thought that life was perfect, 

And its skies forever bright. 
Little Gertrude, now the snow-flakes 

Time has scattered on each tress — 
Made your curls hold Christmas, darling, 

By his silvering caress. 
Forty years have we been parted — 
Forty years ! how long it seems, 
Since with many a ling'ring fondness, 

Learned we what departure means. 



26 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Parted, you so strong in duty, 

Aye, so saint-like in God's grace, 

That I looked to see a halo 
Shine about your holy face. 

Fare you well, my little Gertrude, 

We are on the ebbing tide ; 
On the shore of life, my darling, 

I will claim you for my bride. 
Now I say, " Good night," my darling, 

For the night's around our way; 
I will bid you sweet " Good morning," 

In the dawning of the day. 

New York Weekly, November 2, 1865. 



FLOWEK TEACHINGS 

Lowly bends the drooping lily 

To the fury of the blast ; 
Folds its petals, soft and pearly, 

And the rain-drops clasp them fast 
Clasp her cloak of fleecy velvet 

With a rain-drop diamond pin; 
Draws the folds about her bosom, 

Lest the cold should venture in. 

Shall not He who wraps the lily 

From the fury of the blast, 
Fold a cloak about thee, mortal, 

In his kindness clasp it fast, 
Shield thee from the raging tempest, 

Wrap thee in his arms awhile, 
Till, the fierce storm safely over, 

Thou mayest open in his smile ? 

Thou, O mortal, like the lily, 

Open sweet thy lily-cup ; 
Like the gentle air of Heaven 

Bear thy grateful incense up 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 27 

From thy inmost heart, the sweetest, 

Purest perfume of thy love ; 
Prayer, and praise, and gentle actions — 

These will angels bear above. 

New York Weekly, November 23, 1865. 



HAVING A PICTURE TAKEN 

If you think you've seen a funny scene, 

I think you are mistaken; 
The funniest scene that ever was seen, 

Is " having your picture taken." 
The line of beauty we know isn't straight, 

But the line of your back must be, sir, 
And the opposite sides of your delicate head 

Are squeezed in the prongs of tweezer. 

Your eyes must be fixed in your head, sir, 

With a dire and deadly staring, 
And trying to get the mouth pursed up, 

Is sure to make it glaring. 
And then the hands — Oh dear ! Oh dear ! 

The fingers will keep a-twitching; 
And in the midst of it all, your nose 

Is sure to get itching. 

Oh, I often have noted with laughing eyes 

The victim being taken ; 
The angles formed by every limb 

Are not to be mistaken. 
The mouth drawn down at corners, with 

The nose in elevation, 
And all together the " picture scene," 

Is the drollest in creation. 

Talking of likenesses, we will append some witty verses from a favorite 
contributor, " Ernest Bell," descriptive of the actions of some persons when 
they are having a picture taken. 

New York Weekly, April 27, 1865. 



28 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 



LITTLE FLIKT! 



Haughty sunflower, bend your blossom — 

Let me find the culprit there, 
You have hidden in your blossom ; 

Is it just, or is it fair, 
That with swaying — softly swaying, 

You should lull him to repose, 
When the tender things he's saying, 

Are high treason to the rose ? 

Ah ! I spy the gay deceiver, 

Though you fold him up so sly, 
In your loving — poor believer ! — 

Who shall capture him but I ? 
For I see his yellow jacket, 

Laced with black, or deepest blue ; 
And I see the honey packet, 

Which I know he stole from you. 

And I hear him softly murmur 

Loving nothings, sweet and low. 
Silly flower ! Why, all this summer 

He's been coquetting just so ; 
Roses, lilies, blue-eyed pansies, 

Each he loved, and dearly too, 
While they pleased his idle fancies — 

Just as he is loving you. 

Then he left them. Ah ! proud flower ! - 

Of your amber and your gold 
Do not make a secret bower, 

That vain trifler to enfold. 
See, he's thinking now of parting — 

Plumes his wings for final flight — 
Takes his honey — says at parting : 

" I'm aweary — so, good night." 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 29 

O, the little fickle lover! 

O, the busy buzzing bee ! 
Formed for ever more to love her, 

None should be so true as he. 
Haughty sunflower ! bend your blossom : 

He has left you long ago — 
He has flown from out your bosom — 

Ta'en your honey, too, you know. 

Ann Arbor, June 1, 1865. 



VIGILS 

In a kind of misty daylight, 
In the shadowy land of sleep, 
With the dead and the departed 
I my vigils often keep. 
And I cannot think I'm dreaming 
Tho' I know it is not real 
Tho' I know upon my eyelids 
God has set His silent seal. 

Shadowy faces crowd about me 
Smiling back the smile I give, 
And I cannot think them shadows 
Seeming so to love and live. 
Backward from my burdened shoulders 
Rolls the weight of weary years, 
There's no care upon my forehead, 
In my eye no trace of tears. 

Once again my ringlets cluster 
O'er a brow too young and fair 
Yet to have the seal of sorrow 
Or Time's signet printed there. 
Once again a child I wander 
'Mid the flowers, thoughtless, free 
Dreaming not that life has sorrows 
And a crown of thorns for me. 



THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

Once again I gather daisies 

In the sunlight 'neath the hedge, 

And my brother gets me lilies 

Clinging to the risky ledge. 

Clinging with one hand and reaching 

Just to show how brave was he, 

How he'd risk his boyish ringlets 

Getting lily cups for me. 

Once again I fish with pin hook 
Bent and baited by his hand. 
Toss my line with exultation 
Throw my prize upon the sand. 
Then, my childish heart nigh broken 
By its writhing and its pain, 
Weeping at his smiling — put it 
In the meadow brook again. 

O, the blessed hours of childhood 
How they throng about me, 
Tho' the snow lies on my tresses 
And the wrinkles on my brow. 
Tho' my brother lieth sleeping 
'Neath the daisies' rosy snow, 
And we wept his going from us 
In the morning long ago. 



Father, mother, sister, brother, 
In the shadowy land of sleep 
Once again I meet and love you 
And with you my vigils keep. 
From the happy hours of childhood 
Coming back — the merry hours 
Make me in my pleasant vision 
Child again amid the flowers. 

March 12, 1866. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 31 



ASKING ALMS 

I have stood before a picture 
Which an artist hand had wrought 
Such perfection that it needed 
Scarce the perfecting of thought. 
I have seen a marble statue 
Seeming scarce to need the prayer 
He of old sent up to Venus 
Since the life was truly there. 



But to-day I saw a picture 
Which has moved my heart and brain 
Tho' 'twas but a little maiden 
Standing in the driving rain, 
With a ragged gown of cotton 
Clinging to her shivering form, 
And a hat whose torn fragments 
Could not shield her from the storm. 

So the child stood in the shadow 
Of a dingy chilly wall, 
Asking alms of all who passed her 
Giving back a smile to all. 
Singing sometimes, clearly, sweetly, 
As her thanks a sweet refrain, 
Careless of the weather, singing 
As a bird sings in the rain. 

From the torn and dripping hat rim 
Rippled golden waves of hair, 
As thought sunbeams from the tempest 
Had securely hidden there. 
And from 'neath her heavy lashes 
Large blue eyes were raised to mine 
Full of innocent endurance 
And a holiness divine. 



32 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

Ah, you frame your noble pictures 
In your frames of shining gold, 
But you let this living picture 
Shiver in the rain and cold. 
O Pygmalion, weep no longer 
That old wailing song of old 
Lest this statue now warm, living, 
Like your marble shall be cold. 

Lest the eyes shall lose their beauty, 
And the swiftly fleeting breath, 
And the golden waves of ringlets 
Shall be frozen all by death. 
But pray rather to kind Heaven, 
With uplifted heart and palms, 
That the gracious Christ shall cherish 
This pure infant, asking alms. 

May 6, 1866. 

DEAD AND GONE 

Dead and gone, dead and gone, 

The solemn bell is tolling, 

Passing on, passing on 

The funeral dirge is rolling. 

Mortal, think, on the brink 

Of the coming woe, 

You must drink — though you shrink — 

Of death's cup you know. 

Dead and gone, dead and gone, 
Comes that bell of warning 
By the moan in its tone 
Turning joy to mourning. 
Sadder lore than before 
Beads it to us ever, 
Like the roar on the shore 
Of death's turbid river. 

June, 1866. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 33 



THE KINGDOM UNDER THE SEA 

I think till my head grows dizzy with thought 

Of the Kingdom under the Sea, 

And vaguely I wonder, but never decide 

What kind of a place it might be. 

Can it be there's another world like this 

With the dark blue waves for a sky, 

And deep in the hearts of the coral caves 

Are there beings like you and I ? 

Have they from the sinning of Adam been free 
So they know not humanity's bane, 
Nor Sacrifice dying, on shivering tree 
To restore perfect blessings again ? 
Have their brows never bent to the weight of a sin, 
Nor their hearts shrunk away from the right, 
Or have they the nature of downfallen men, 
As well as the blossom, the blight ? 

Or is it the summer resort of the Gods, 

And have they pearl palaces there 

Where Neptune and suite may sit at their board, 

And Hebes their jewelled cups bear? 

Do the mer-maidens gather their beautiful locks 

In fillets of pearl, seeded o'er, 

And float through the liquid blue streets of their town 

The same as the maidens on shore? 

Do they race with the dolphin and laugh at the fish 

In lovely sweet silvery tones ; 

Do they flirt with the men of the Sea, and enjoy 

Their jealous complainings and groans ? 

Do they gather the sea-weed to twine in their hair 

And make them anemone crowns, 

And woman-like, catching their hearts in the snare, 

Reward their devotions with frowns ? 



34 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Do the mer-men to please them take argonaut shells 

And make of them miniature sails. 

Or driven hy tempests beneath the rough wave 

Do they capture the violet snails ? 

Do they build up their palace of coral and shell 

Till the sunshine above strikes the dome, 

Do they carpet with jewels and curtain with mist, 

And have they the comforts of home ? 

And do they talk politics under the Sea, 

Or have they no choice of a king ; 

And when they have weddings (they surely must wed) 

Do they marry with Rector and ring? 

And when the brave sailor-boys crowd to the deck 

To look at the Sea in a glow, 

Have not the mer-men caught medusas, and formed 

A torch-light procession below ? 

Oh, marvels untold and wonders unsung 

Of the Kingdom under the Sea, 

Who will brave Neptune and bear back the news 

And tell it to you and to me ? 

Are the mer-men, real men, Oh, tell me who can ! 

Are the maidens so treacherously fair, 

Do they rest on the rocks as the sailors report 

And comb out their waving green hair ? 

Do they sing 'trancing songs in the still summer night 

When the moon in the heavens ride high, 

And woo on the sailors by face and by voice 

To seek their enchantments — and die ? 

And when our great Cable dropped in their sky 

Did they curl their bright hair in its bands, 

And then, lest the lightning should shiver their clouds, 

Did they snap it with mischievous hands ? 

Do they have any wonder when ships cross the sea 

Or alas ! when they sink to the caves, 

Do they gather around the dead forms, which have come 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 35 

To the Ocean to find but their graves ? 

And filled with a wonder, and awe-struck surprise, 

Do they touch the cold strangers' stiff hands 

And lift up the ivory lids of their eyes 

To show them the coral-reefed strands? 

Do the mer-maidens robe them in innocent glee 
And try on the bracelets and rings, 
The dresses and jewels from over the Sea, 
Which the ship to the coral reef brings ? 
Or frighted by sight of a monster so rare, 
And of beings so icy and stark, 
Do they shiver and shudder in terrible fear 
And guard it with sea-dog and shark ? 

Oh, mightiest work of an Almighty hand, 

Oh, wonders and marvels untold, 

Who will go down to this unexplored land, 

And all its strange stories unfold? 

When the last trump shall sound, and the sea give its dead, 

His hand shall its wonders reveal ; 

When He shall throw open the Sapphire gates 

And shatter the Amethyst seal. 

When the sound of His voice shall go down to the deep, 
And the hosts shall arise at His call, 
Oh, then, when they all awaken who sleep 
We, trusting in Him, shall know all. 

May 25, 1866. 

Published in Godey's Ladies' Book. 



QUERIES 

Do you think if I'd a baby, 
That I'd let him pull my hair? 

Do you think I'd put on collars 
Just for him to soil and tear? 



36 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Do you think I'd call him pretty, 
When he bites his little toe ? 

Yet I've known some silly mothers, 
With their babies, do just so. 

Do you think I'd set him crying, 

Just to see his cunning frown ? 
Do you think I'd set him walking, 

Just to see him tumble down? 
Would I call my baby pretty, 

When he'd neither teeth nor hair ? 
Yet I've known some silly mothers, 

With their babies, think they are. 

Would I buy him drum and rattles, 

Just to hear him make a crash ? 
Would I watch him most delighted 

Break my mirror all to smash ? 
Would I smother him in flannels, 

Just because his voice was low ? 
Dose him up with belladonna? 

Silly mothers treat them so. 

Would I think his brow Byronic, 

Just because it was so bare? 
And his head Napoleonic 

In its shape — though minus hair ? 
Could I trace the marks of genius 

In the eyebrows, arched and low ? 
Yet I've known some silly mothers, 

With their babies, think just so. 

Would I think my baby destined 
To become a man of men, 

And to govern and control them 
By the might of sword or pen ? 

I dare say these noisy babies 
Play the very deuce — I know. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 37 

And I've seen the wisest women, 
With their babies, think just so. 

Come to think of it, the writer of the above stinging verses can't be a 
bachelor either. They have a sound of feminine vivacity which assures 
us that " Ernest Bell " must be a lady ; nor are we the less pleased with 
them for that. May she visit our clubroom frequently. 

For the New York Mercury. March 31, 1866. 



BUD-MAKING 

I am trying to make a bud again 

Of this velvet-petaled rose, 

Which I hold in my hand press so close 

But the petals refuse to close. 

Alas, the purple-red lips have felt 

The burning kiss of the sun, 

And the beautiful bud cannot return 

When the rose has once been blown. 

O Sol, you should make your love to the stars, 

Or say tender things to the moon, 

But I really think that a god like you 

Should let a rose bud alone. 

You have stolen the dew from its fresh, young heart 

With your passionate kiss to-day, 

And I cannot make of the rose again 

The bud you lured away. 

The Peninsular Courier, Ann Arbor, May 3, 1866. 



CHERIE'S KISS 

Cherie, do you love me ? 

Answer, yes or no. 
Are you sure you love me ? 

Will you tell me so ? 
Ah, you need not flutter, 

I shall hold you here, 



38 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

Till you tell me, birdie, 
Do you love me, dear ? 

Sweet are summer blossoms — 

Bright are summer birds ; 
Brighter are your rose-lips, 

Sweeter are your words. 
Do you love me, Cherie ? 

Nay, you shall not go 
Till you answer truly — 

Is it yes or no ? 

Then my Cherie, smiling 

Archly in my face, 
Presses down my eye-lids 

With a pretty grace — 
Bridges o'er the darkness 

With a warm, soft, snow 
Like to nothing earthly 

But her hands, I know. 

And was it but the fragrance 

Of a passing breeze 
Laden with the incense 

Of the orange trees ; 
Was it but the pressure 

Of a falling flower 
On my lips ? — or, think you - 

In that quiet bower — 
That beneath the orange, 

'Twas not flower, nor breeze, 
But my darling's rose-lips, 

Underneath the trees ? 

Ah, the hands are vanished. 

And I dimly see 
That my Cherie left me 

Swiftly, silently. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 39 

But I see her garments 

And I hear her feet, 
Falling on the gravel : 

Oh, my dear — my sweet! 

In your arms, acacias, 

Keep the secret well, 
And your mischief breezes 

Cannot try to tell 
Half the thrilling pleasure, 

Half the fragrant bliss 
Which was wafted to me 

In my darling's kiss. 

In the touch so dainty 

That I could not tell 
Whether 'twas her rose-lips 

Or a leaf which fell ; 
In a touch so fragrant 

That I thought the breeze 
Wafted to me incense 

From the orange trees. 

Ann Arbor, May 10, 1866. 



MAKING READY EOR OUR JOURNEY 

If I promise now to journey 

With you, dearest, side by side, 

You, your jealousy must bury, 

I, my pettishness and pride; 

You must put your angry passions 
In the grave as well, my dear, 

I will give my vain ambition 
And the yearnings of a year. 

We will bury all together, 

Make the grass an emerald door; 



40 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Lock them up with chains of daisies, 
Keep them locked forever more. 

For the rest, to love and patience, 
And a Father's tender hand 

We will trust, and so my dearest, 
Journey to the better land. 

December 6, 1866. 



TO KITTIE 

Do you love me, Kit tie Bartell, 

As you did ten years ago ? 
Do you love me, little Kittie ? 

You were younger then, you know. 
Ay, and you were gayer, Kittie, 

Blyther than any bee, 
Sweeter voice than woodland-singer, 

Though it still is sweet to me. 

Little Kittie, you have loved me, 

In the years agone, my sweet, 
When I thought the clover freshened 

'Neath the touch of your quick feet. 
You have loved me, I repeat it, 

In a kind of happy strain, 
As one loves to hear old music, 

Which he once has loved, again. 

You have loved me, pretty Kittie, 

Do you know how those words thrill, 
How my heart, lest it should hush them, 

Stops its beating and is still ? 
Do you love me now, my darling, 

Just as well as you did then ? 
Did you love me then, my darling? 

And I'll ask the first again. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 41 

We have lost our romance, Kittie, 

Years will take it off, you know, 
Just as surely as the sunshine 

Robs the flowers of their snow. 
But the fragrance, little Kittie, 

Never leaves the fading rose, 
Only gets the sweeter, darling, 

As the flower older grows. 

So our love shall grow the sweeter 

In the happy coming years, 
And we will in their dear sunshine 

Quite forget our griefs and fears. 
You a widowed wife, my Kittie, 

Ay, and children, mother, too, 
Leave for aye your life's sad darkness 

For the sunshine offered you. 

Poor young widow — sorrow's chalice 

You have drained with hitter tears ; 
And my heart was aching, Kittie, 

To be with you all those years. 
But you know that we were foolish, 

Ah, me ! let the past be past ! 
We have come into the sunshine, 

And to happiness at last. 

A curiosity among men appears — one who is content with one love in 
ten years. Why, there is time in that period to use up half a dozen loves, 
and to be left a widower with grown children several times. 

September 22, 1866. 

LINES ON THE DEATH OF FANNIE SEWARD 
Dedicated to Her Father 

Fanny Seward — angel daughter, 
Speak her name with bated breath, 

You who loved her, you who taught her, 
Know the mournfulness of death. 



42 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

She who was so sweet and tender, 
Yet has cost you bitter tears, 

In that God could only lend her 
Unto you a few short years. 

Can you comprehend the story 

Tho' your lips its truth repeat, 
That an angel, now in glory, 

Knelt an infant at your feet? 
Up to things beyond her reaching 

You have lifted her you know. 
~Now you listen to her teaching — 

She so high and you so low. 

Vain your prayers, and your caressing, 

Silken chords, they could not hold 
Her pure spirit upward pressing 

Though you wrought them many fold ; 
Tho' she loved you, tho' she offered 

Her sweet life in your defense, 
Yet she must accept the proffered 

Out-stretched hand of God. 

Did you dream that she, your baby 

Whom you stooped to, bye-and-bye 
Would out-grow her father, may-be, 

In the twinkling of an eye ? 
In a twinkling, she ascending, 

As you watched with quick drawn breath, 
Left you, scarcely comprehending 
Half the mystery of death. 

Left you standing, sadly gazing 

To the far-off shining shore 
Where are saints and angels, praising 

Christ the Lord, for ever more. 
Tho' the cross is heavy, bear it 

For the Comforter he brings, 
Binding up your bruised spirit 

With the healing of his wings. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 43 

O'er the river that can never 

Be re-crossed, the angel barque 
Bore her from us, do not shiver, 

To her soul it was not dark ; 
On the shining shore she lingers, 

Looking backward with a smile 
Beckons you with loving fingers, 

You will follow after while. 

Father, bending 'neath the burden 

Of a long day's toil and heat, 
Even now the waves of Jordan 

Coolly lave your weary feet. 
Tho' men honor, tho' men love you, 

Such poor gifts no healing are, 
Lift your eyes up, look above you 

There behold your morning star. 

For the Courier and the Visitant, 
Ann Arbor, Dec, 6, 1866. 



TRIP LIGHTLY 

Trip lightly over trouble, 

Trip lightly over wrong, 
We only make grief double 

By dwelling on it long. 
Why clasp woe's hand so tightly? 

Wiry sigh o'er blossoms dead ? 
Why cling to forms unsightly ? 

Why not seek joy instead ? 

Trip lightly over sorrow, 

Though all the day is dark, 
The sun may shine to-morrow, 

And gaily sing the lark ; 
Fair hopes have not departed, 

Though roses may have fled; 
Then never be downhearted, 

But look for joy instead. 



44 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Trip lightly over sadness, 

Stand not to rail at doom; 
We've pearls to string of gladness, 

On this side of the tomb ; 
Whilst stars are nightly shining, 

And the Heaven overhead, 
Encourage not repining, 

But look for joy instead. 

City Times, Zanesville, Ohio. 
February 21, 1867. 



SOMEBODY'S DAKLING 

Flutter of ribbons and glamour of lace, 
Innocent sweetness of beautiful face, 
Flashing of jewels and brightness of eye 
Tell me that somebody's darling goes by. 
Somebody, thinking the red of her lips 
The richest of rubies can never eclipse ; 
Somebody loving, who knows how to prize 
More than rare diamonds the flash of her eyes. 

Somebody loves her — Oh, Somebody loves 
The light of her smile, the flash of her eye ; 

By flutter of ribbon and glamour of lace, 
Somebody's darling I know passeth by. 

Poorest of garments and baskets of lace, 

Life-wearied sadness and death-shadowed face, 

Want of all jewels and dimness of eye, 

Tell me that nobody's darling goes by. 

Nobody, seeing the white of her lips ; 

Nobody, fearing the coming eclipse, 

When Death sets his seal on the brow of his prize, 

And shuts out forever the light from her eyes. 

Nobody loves her — Oh, Nobody loves 
The light of her smile, the flash of her eye ; 

By poorest of garments and burdens of lace, 
Nobody's darling I know passeth by. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 45 

Oh, by the light on her innocent face, 

A visible sign of an inward grace; 

Oh, by the softening smile in her eyes, 

Breaking in light though the shadow there lies — 

Surely I'm thinking that somebody knows 

The life which has shadowed her face with its woes ; 

Somebody, loving, who lightens the care 

Of the burden too heavy for her to bear. 

Somebody loves her, oh, Somebody loves 

The light of her smile, the glance of her eye ; 

By a beautiful peace on the death-shadowed face, 
The darling of God I know passeth by. 

Godey's Lady's Book, February, 1867. 



ANN ARBOR 

Emerald bending of shadowy hills, 

Linking green garlands around it, 
Tenderest droojung of golden-fringed clouds, 

Bluest skies, — these have bound it — 
These, and the silver-white ribbon which slips 

With scarcely a thrill through the grasses, 
These, and the sunshine which lingers, and dips 

In flowery cups as it passes. 

As one sang of England — God's finger has touched, 

When he molded this vale, never pressing; 
O'er the brim of the valleys the hills overflow 

In billows of verdure, expressing ; 
And here in the greenness our colleges stand, 

The pride of the West — our light burning — 
Which leadeth our heroes to rule in the land 

By force of mind and learning. 

Men, stronger of sight than their fellows, have seen 
At most through a glass ; but still, seeing 

Some tithe of the wonders an Almighty mind 
Conceived, and controlled into being; 



46 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

And here, in the wide college halls, they have set 
The proofs of their daring researches, 

From the photographed moon and orbits of stars, 
To the scales of salmon and perches. 

Here JSTydia stands — the perfection of art = — 

Attesting the height of man's power ; 
Perfect in art — not more faulty, in truth, 

Than the whorl of a shell, or a flower. 
It moveth us strangely, a statue, no more 

The soul in 't forever upraising, 
Death wrought into life in the passionless stone 

Too natural far for the praising. 

Ann Arbor has more than her bowers to boast, 

And more than her silver-tongued river, 
Soft in the sunshine, and sweet in the rain, 

God bless her ever and ever. 
O city of colleges, pleasant retreat 

Prom the heat and the burden of day, 
May your pathway to science be cool to the feet, 

Of the travelers who throng on the way. 

Peninsular Courier, Ann Arbor, June 14, 1867. 



TO C- 



In the midst of darkness, 
In the midst of grief, 
Still, oh still remaineth 
Sure and safe relief. 

Still, oh still dear C 

Shines the sun to-day 
Though the clouds are lowering 
Cold, and chill and gray. 

Over all One guideth 
You and me, our way 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIELHOOD 47 

He can make most peaceful. 
Softly, low, I pray; 
Father, Father keep us 
'Neath thy shadowing wing, 
To thy simple children 
Peace and comfort bring. 
In our hours of darkness 
Guide us to the light. 
Father, Savior, help us, 
Guide us to the right. 

Father, Savior, hear us pray 
Ere we seek our rest — 
Thy will be done — not ours — 
Thou knowest surely best. 

February 17, 1868. 



A VALENTINE 

On a dark and dreary evening when the winds blew cold and 

chill, when the side walks were ice-coated, and the gas 

burned faint and dim, 
Thro' the gloom and thro' the darkness, struggling forward, 

slipping back, yet again essaying progress for no weather 

daunted him, 
On that night so dark and dreary, on that night so cold and 

bleak, one, whom I wot of, with his great umbrella armed 
Dared the darkness, dared the raining, dared the slipping and 

the blowing, roughed his boots and set out bravely still 

undaunted, unalarmed. 

And he heard the shrill policeman, heard the dread policeman's 

whistle ; heard the whistling and the calling, but his heart 

was brave and strong yet ; 
Said he, " I will hurry onward, I will walk a little faster for 

the rain is beating sorely, and the way is very long yet." 
So he hurried, so he hastened and his feet were none too solid on 

the side walk cold and icy, but he stood on slippery places 



48 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

With the ease of one accustomed, with the storm in all its phases, 
called the furies who assailed him with their whirlwinds 
" gentle graces." 

Called the wind " most pleasant zephyr," and the rain a sweet 
spring shower, called the North wind " sweetest Wabon," 
praised the beauty of the hour. 

So he toiled and travelled onward 'til he reached his destina- 
tion, and his weary boots were rested by this man of might 
and power. 

Rested, while he laughed and chattered, telling o'er his great 
adventures, all his perils on the journey, and his dangers, 
one by one, 

And I listened to his stories, to his terrible recitals, to his dan- 
gers and distresses, 'til the dreadful tale was done. 

Then we talked, this Hiawatha out in search of strange adven- 
tures and your very humble author, talked of valentines 
and writing. 

Said he, laughing, " I will give you so much money in a ' green- 
back,' for a yard of any poem, which must be of your indit- 
ing, 

And the poem it shall rhyme well, shall have sense and shall 
have measure, and the measure I will have it three feet 
long and broad sixteen. 

I will have it on next Monday when the clock is striking six, I 
will have a yard of poetry with the rhyming all mixed in. 

Then I straightway took the challenge, took it with its full 

conditions, took his offer as he made it, said I'd do my 

very best. 
Said I'd give him sense for dollars, said I'd write him such 

a poem he would gap and yawn half thro' it, yawn and 

dream and sleep the rest. 
For he meant the measure linear, I poetic feet employ, so I 

wrote it with the measure poets ever must employ, and I 

offer for acceptance full one yard of Valentine. 
Offer to you for your wishing, as an answer to your wishing, as 

a trial for your patience this extensive work of mine. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 49 

And I know your patient temper, know your courage and your 
bravery by the dangers you encountered as you came along 
the way. 

By the dangers you passed safely, all the charms and the en- 
chantments, all the pretty fascinations of St. Valentine's 
day, 

But you passed them, bravest warrior, vanquished them in sin- 
gle combat, and the hearts with darts transfixed failed to 
win you by their wiles. 

You, a modern Hiawatha, with the heart of that great Hero, 
now must find a Minnehaha whom the conquest shall com- 
plete. 

St. Valentine's Day, 1868. 



" ONLY A WOMAN'S FOOTPRINT 

Only a woman's footprint 

Slender and light and small, 
Leading down to the river, 

Eresh in the snow, that is all. 
In the eve, when lamps are lighted, 

The first soft flakes came down, 
And a chill white frost was over 

The hills and vales and town. 

Sometime in the night this impress 

Was made by a slender shoe; 
Out in the dark at midnight, 

What should a woman do? 
Childishly small, this footprint — 

Scarcely more than a child — 
Out all alone, and the snow 

In desolate drifts was piled. 

Down toward the river — how drear 
On her must have fallen that night — 

Daring her lonely journey 

When the stars were scarce alight ; 



50 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Weary of life and its coldness = — 
She was but a child, scarcely more — 

Did she set with trembling boldness 
Her light little feet on the shore ? 

The cold, cold heavens above her, 

The cold, cold drifts below, 
With none to shield and love her 7 

And none to save from woe. 
With the swift, dark current wooing, 

O pitiless stars, could you light 
This pitiful child to her ruin 

In the chill and darkness of night % 

The gleam of a woman's tresses 

Lying upon the sand, 
Like glistening golden seaweed 

Cast by the waves to land ! 
The sorrowful, sad appealing, 

Of a young and pallid face, 
Washed by the waves, and drifted 

At last to a resting-place ! 

Over her eyes the fringes 

Droop in beautiful rest, 
And two cold hands lie lightly 

Over the pulseless breast. 
Heaven have mercy — and mortals — 

The world was so weary, cold ; 
God grant this straying lamb has found 

Her Savior's tender fold. 

June 13, 1868. 



THE HEARTH AND HOME 

Above may be clouds and thick darkness may hide 
My long weary way in its pitiless gloom, 
The tempest may lower, but oh, heart so tired, 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 51 

An angel is standing for aye by thy side 

And bids thee remember thy hearth and thy home. 

Chorus 

Dear faces made bright in the glory, 
Dear love made immortal, I come, 
Tho' dreary the journey before me, 
The star in the east trembling o'er me 
Will lead me to hearth and home. 

Look up eager eyes in the deepening night ; 
The rainbow of promise is shining afar, 
The hearth stone is shedding its cheeriest light, 
The home faces beckon with welcoming bright — 
Rise up, lo, He bids thee ! — and follow the star. 

Erom sin and temptation, from sorrow and care 
Dear voices triumphant ye call me — I come, 
My brow is o'er shadowed and frosted my hair, 
The child smile is gone which my face used to wear 
Yet still ye will know me — my hearth and my home. 

I heed not the darkness for over the way 

A light shines for me as I wearily roam, 

I know that the angel who taught me to pray 

Will lead up my soul to the dawning of day, 

And soon I shall be with my dear ones at home. 

April 21, 1869. 



MEMORIES 

How bright is the sun on this beautiful lea 

And the breath of the briar-rose is sweetness to me, 

They glow with a glory one caught in her hair 

In the days long ago when I placed a bud there. 

When hand touching hand was delight for a day 

And eye meeting eye was a pure ecstasy. 



52 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Oh the beautiful hours of that promising day 
How blissful the moments, how transient their stay, 
Like the bright tinted bow in the cloud of the sky 
They gleamed but a moment, in glory to die. 
We may say the old pages forever are sealed, 
Old bruises we think may as surely be healed, 
How is it the sight of this same verdant lea 
And the scent of a rose has so brought back to me 
The olden old story, and once more is pressed 
The penitent's cross to my trembling breast? 

Ah, the pages once written can never be white, 
And sorrows once suffered will leave us their blight, 
The heart's inner chamber oft gives to the day 
The sweet, sacred memories treasured away, 
A look, or a smile as remembered of yore, 
Or even a fragrance may open the door 
And for a brief moment we live over again 
The joy of our life or we suffer its pain. 

The ages may come and the ages may go, 
And the waters of death may my soul overflow ; 
But out from its darkness, a star in the gloom, 
Unquenched and unquenchable e'en by the tomb ; 
Still, still, and forever that smile I shall see 
A light in the window of Heaven for me, 
And now in the fall of the evening there glows 
The faint setting sun on the breast of the rose. 

1869 

LOVE'S HALO 

One night, oh, well remembered night 
Through stained glass, and opened door 
The moonlight fell upon the floor 
In flickering shadows, wan and white. 

We stood within the pallid glow 

And said good night — good night again 



POEMS WRITTEN IN GIRLHOOD 53 

With half of pleasure, half of pain, 
And then — and then he turned to go. 

But going turned — half unaware 
And let his hand fall on my brow 
So lightly, yet it thrills me now 
As if it still were resting there. 

The short, light curls his hand upraised 
With tender motion — half caress 
Most gentle in its tenderness, 
He spake no word — and yet he praised. 

There was no need of any word — 
I comprehended all he meant, 
For mute lips are most eloquent, 
The sweetest songs are never heard. 

And ever since upon my brow 
A tender halo seems to rest. 
I must be better than the best 
To lift me to his loving now. 

Jan. 29, 1869. 



POEMS WRITTEN IN LATER LIFE 



THE WINDS 

The winds were all abroad last night, 
They rooked us in our bed, 
And sang a fearful lullaby 
That filled our souls with dread. 

Like frightened children in the dark 
Afraid to sleep we lay, 
And listened to that dreadful hymn 
Till dawning of the day. 

The imploring trees reached out their arms 
Already chilled and bare 
In vain — they cracked, were bent and torn 
And carried through the air. 

The very cattle on the hills 

All shook and lowed with fright, 

From what wild cave — in angry mood 

Came up the winds to-night? 

" Where it listeth," whence or whither 
Thou canst never tell, 
Run the words — but He, the Giver, 
Knoweth, therefore all is well. 

The sunshine and the storm alike 

Are scattered from His hand, 

Who is the shadow of a rock 

Within a weary land. 
54 



LATEE POEMS 55 

A very present help, a shield. 
Blow winds — and welcome storm — 
Since sent by Him — we're sheltered by 
The strength of His right arm. 

Dec. 5, 1873. 

TURN, MY DARLING 

Turn, my darling, smile and bless me 
Who was wont to smile on thee, 
Low I bend me, and confess me, 
At my own pure infant's knee. 

Little hands that I, upholding, 
Taught their pretty clasp of prayer 
Now have grown in their unfolding 
Strong enough mine own to bear. 

Little knees I taught to bending 
Kneel before the throne to-day, 
And the voice with angels' blending 
Is the voice I taught to pray. 

Now the soft loose curls are lying 
On the pillow as they were 
When my darling slept to dying 
Slipping Heavenward like a prayer. 

January, 1873. 



DEDICATED TO THE HOME GUARDS 

Guards of home we gladly meet you 
With the olive branch of peace ; 
In prosperity we greet you 
Hoping it may never cease ; 
But we know these hands we're clasping 
Should the time of danger come 
Will not be less quick in grasping 
Weapons that shall guard their home. 



56 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

Now to-day our guests, God bless you, 
And to-morrow who shall say 
Whither friend or foe may press you, 
This to do, or that to stay 
Whether fields be green or gory, 
Or in peace or war you come — 
Our pride in peace — in war our glory 
Always welcome, Guards of Home. 



July 3, 1873. 



THE OLD YEAK 



Adown the dark heavens there trembles a star, 

Which late in the zenith had shown afar: 
But now through its own glowing pathway it flies, 

Trembles and vanishes — in darkness it dies. 

So this bright year which we hailed with acclaim, 
Christened so gayly with such a bright name, 

Shone in the zenith in glory: but now 

Trembles and vanishes, who shall say how. 

Blessed old year — though your shining be o'er, 
Your youth and your glory return never more 

Still, still with a grateful remembrance we'll drink 

To you, still gentle guardian ; fill up and drink to the brink. 

And may your successor prove only as true, 
As faithful and honest as we have found you, 

We cannot forget you, for with you, we know 

We've sorrowed and suffered — had weal and had woe. 

And woven with every smile and each tear 
Are memories of you — poor, dying old year. 

The pages ones written can never be white, 

And sorrows once suffered will leave us their blight. 

The heart\ mner chamber oft gives to the day 
The sweel wcred memories treasured away, 



LATER POEMS 57 

A look or a smile as remembered of yore, 
Or even a fragrance may open the door. 

And for a brief moment we live o'er again 

The joys of the year, we suffer its pain 
You have blessed us, old year, in plentiful store 

JSTo dreadful disaster has come to us — more — . 

The white dove of peace hovers over the land 

The centenial is coming — old fellow your hand — 

May the lad in the long clothes, unknown and untried, 
Be a faithful follower of him who has died. 

But very young infants are doubtful at best, 

We only can hope this, and trust for the rest. 
How slowly you leave us, oh, blessed old year 

Here's a kind hand at parting and many a tear. 

1875. 



OUR LITTLE ANGEL 

We have a child whose little feet 

Can never go astray, 
Whose hand will need no parent's clasp 

To guide it in the way. 
Dear little feet which knew but rest ; 

Sweet life scarce told by hours 
Wee little hands upon the breast 

And clasped by burial flowers. 

They only saw — those dear dark eyes - 

A father's tender face, 
Then softly closed — and paradise 

Dawned on them in its place. 
Tell me, oh dewy eyes, wilt know 

That face again — when he 
Ascending to thy higher sphere 

Gains immortality? 



58 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Dear little babe, so sadly missed, 
Altho' was scarce possessed — 

How vacant seems the little crib 
How empty now the breast 

On which we only dreamed he slept 
So swiftly passed his breath. 

Dear little lamb, his tender feet 

Were saved the weary way. 
He knew the early dawn of morn 

But not the heat of day, 
This weakling of our flock — the Lord 

Has taken to his breast, 
And in the Shepherd's bosom fold 

Our little lamb's at rest. 

Written on the death of little Alfred, June 18, 1876. 



GOOD NIGHT 

O little brown head nestled low mid the flowers 
O wee little hands clasped so tight ; 

God's precious new angel which might have been ours 
Good night, little darling, good night ! 

Dear, wee little feet never tired nor worn, 

Pure, pure, little soul sinless white : 
Christ's own little angel and ours newly-born, 

Good night, little darling, good night! 

June 23, 1876. 



"BE NOT YE TEOUBLED" 

Why are you troubled — the day is at hand : 
Look for the clouds though stars intervene. 

The billows ride high ; but yonder's the land 
And over the waters, the meadows are green. 



LATEE POEMS 59 

Why are you troubled, O heart weary one 
Think of the blessings the future may bring, 

Back of the clouds still rideth the sun 

And under the snow is the thrill of the spring. 

Be not ye troubled, the Savior of men 

Blessing hath blessed you, and God's on his throne 

And the rose of this promise shall blossom again 
When by the still waters He leadeth you on. 



MAGDALENE 

Upon the step a woman stood 
Ragged and soiled and cold ; 
A woman lost to womanhood 
And yet in years not old. 
She begged but for her body's need 
Some clothes and food to eat, 
And as she spoke her downcast eyes 
Were cast upon her feet. 

Poor weary feet — how long astray 

Or why they went God knows ; 

Because they went — turn not away 

He cared for such as those. 

Draw thou not back — oh, I beseech 

Do thou not cast the stone 

Lest drifting far beyond thy reach 

This soul condemns thine own. 

" You seem quite well," the hearer said, 

" Why don't you work? "— " You see " - 

The woman lifted up her head — 

" No one would hire me." 

The voice was full of quiet scorn 

And deep humility. 

What sisters in the land were born 

To care for such as she? 



60 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

She turned and slowly went her way 

To deeper woe and sin, 

Because no sister hand that day 

Took hers and led her in 

Away from all that she had known 

And back to purity. 

Another hand took up the stone 

To cast at such as she. 

And yet, upon the sand, one day 
~No word of blame was penned ; 
But " Sin no more and go thy way," 
He said — the sinner's Friend. 
And women sisters of this land 
Will He not look to you 
To hold out such a helping hand 
As He was wont to do ? 

July 1, 1876. 



AILSINORE 

Gaily dawns the silver day, 

The singing lark soars high ; 

But my sad heart is cold and gray 

Like the depths of a winter sky. 

For I stand alone on Time's bleak shore 

And I dream of the golden days, 

When hand in hand with Ailsinore 

We went our pleasant ways. 

Then tho' the lark sings clear and loud, 
And tho' the sky's without a cloud, 
My sun of life is in the west, 
My singing birds have gone to rest. 
For I'm alone, and never more 
Upon this side of Time's dark stream 
Shall I behold my Ailsinore 
Save as the glory of a dream. 



LATEE POEMS 61 

I sit and sigh 

As the days go by 

Alone on a foreign shore, 

And ever I dream of the moonlight gleam 

Of the eyes of Ailsinore. 

But my heart goes back to the silver days 

When I stood with Ailsinore, 

And I see again her tender ways 

My Queen from the Southern shore. 

GRADUATING SONG 

For The Silver Wedding of Alma Mater 

Alma Mater! Alma Mater! this glorious day 

With heart and song we repeat 
Good wishes and greetings, tho' now passed away, 

The time when we sat at thy feet, 
Tho' life has taught lessons we learned not of thee 

When sorrow and cares were unknown; 
Still, as to the sweetest of flowers, the bee, 

So turn we again to our own. 

Alma Mater ! Alma Mater ! long life and success 

Crown thee on this fair wedding day, 
Tho' silver's beginning to brighten each tress 

And thy fresh youth is passing away, 
Still, still, in our hearts and ever to be 

Unchanged and unchanging for aye, 
Enshrined in affection, a fair memory 

Too dear to grow old or to die. 

June, 1876. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. LEGGET 

Speak softly, tread lightly, he lieth at rest, 
His beard like a snow wreath over his breast ; 
So pleasant his smile, so gracious his face 
We linger awhile loath to leave him a space. 



62 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

For why should we grieve ? Only this and no more 
The bow of his boat has reached the far shore, 
And we who still sail on in darkness and woe 
Miss the light of his presence, his spirit's fine glow. 
For him life was kindly and Death soothed his touch 
As one does with a child one has humored o'er much, 
How generous, how gentle, how kindly was he 
To those whom he loved — only we 
Who knew him the longest can value him best, 
This heart of pure gold which lieth at rest. 



MY WISH TO-NIGHT 

If I could have my wish to-night 

And put these cares away, 

These many, wearing, precious cares 

That fret me day by day, 

Could I turn back from all the dross 

And all the gold of life, 

That form the crown and forge the cross 

Of motherhood and wife ? 

Here grief and joy go hand in hand, 
And both speed swiftly on, 
Sunshine and shadow — there's a land 
Which lieth in the sun. 
Nor sun nor shade, nor grief nor joy 
Can make my life more blessed ; 
But only this, the smile of Him 
Who giveth to us " rest." 

How sweet the word to tired ears, 

Dear Father, let me be 

Content to bear my joys and cares 

At rest — at peace with Thee. 

Thou knowest how weak and frail the feet 

That press the thorny road, 

Thou knowest how faltering the heart 

That reaches up to God. 



LATEK POEMS 63 

And from thine own humanity 
Dear Savior, knowing all 
Its weakness and its vanity 
How prone to faint and fall, 
I need not fear Thy judgment, Lord, 
Since Love and Mercy plead, 
Shine Thou upon the darkest road 
And it is bright indeed. 

New Year, 1876. 



A KING TOnTCKOWNED 

Among us walked a King uncrowned 

A nobleman, we know it now 

When round his bier the wreaths are wound, 

And thousands o'er his ashes bow. 

For him the hushed and weeping throng, 

The poor, the rich are side by side, 

As they shall lie ere very long : 

To-day they wept for he has died. 

That kingly soul, thrice blessed now, 
O mourning wife, look up and smile 
See'st not the crown upon his brow 
Tho' tears may veil thy sight the while. 
The pure in heart — and who so pure 
As gently bow beneath the rod — 
Eor surely while the heavens endure 
He, pure in heart, shall see his God. 

His life was given to duties done, 

His place is vacant — let us weep ! 

His rest is come, his race is won, 

" He giveth his beloved sleep." 

Sleep thou, the people's comfort — rest, 

Thy life has rounded to its close 

Thy new life's dawning may be guessed — 

For him no longer pain or woes. 



64 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

O radiant spirit upward soar 

Into the clearer air of Heaven ; 

The Lord has claimed his own once more 

His choicest jewel lent — not given. 

O tender spirit, earthward bend, 

Of mourning wife, and babes, and friends 

With thy celestial sympathy. 

Detroit, March, 1883. 



THE SPARROW'S COMPLAINT 

I wish, said the sparrow, my nest was made 

Of just one single feather, 

This flying about in sun and in shade, 

And carrying of sticks and of strings I'm afraid 

Will wear me out altogether. 

And I wish that my birds were born with wings. 

What good are these eggs I wonder ? 

They're easy to break, the brittle things, 

Or boys will reach them with ropes and strings 

Or else they're killed by the thunder. 

And I wish that cats would never grow 
But stay kittens forever and ever; 
That big fat worms would lie in a row 
Where I could get all I want, you know, 
Without any special endeavor. 

The sun in the east rose golden and round, 

Whilst the poor little bird was repining. 

Said she, I must work while the dew's on the ground, 

Or never a worm will be lying around 

And it's time my children were dining. 

May 11, 1886. T. B. S. 



LATEK POEMS 65 



SONG FOE THE G. A. K. 

Skies are bright and hearts at rest 
Soft the breeze blows from the South, 
Little birds have built their nests 
In the dreadful cannon's mouth. 
Once again the drum and fife 
Greet again our eager listening ears, 
O'er again we live the strife 
Buried 'neath the bloom of years. 

Chorus 

Hurrah ! Hurrah for our boys in blue 

As they come with eager feet, 

And the tramp, tramp, tramp is sounding now 

As they march along the street. 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the boys in blue 

Hurrah for God and the Right ! 

The pulse of life beats strong and true 

And dawn has crowned the night. 

Eaces scarred by shot and shell, 
Feet that ran at Duty's cry, 
Hands that held the sabre well, 
Flags that saw our heroes die ; 
Heroes all, both friend and brother 
Clasping hands the Blue and Gray, 
Children of our common Mother 
Friends more steadfast from to-day. 

Chorus. 

Bend your heads, your colors furled, 
Soft your voices, slow your tread 
Some have reached another world 
Who beside you fought and bled. 



THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Gone, have they, through Heaven's portals 
They have reached the further shore, 
And have joined the Brave Immortals 
Soldiers, heroes ever more. 



June 22, 1891. 



SLUMBER SONG ON THE ST. CLAIR 

For the Republican 

Sleep, sleep while billows creep 

Over the slumbrous sands, 
And every breeze 

Blesses the trees 
With trembling, shadowy hands. 

Birds in their nests with heads in their breasts 

Murmur a lullaby, 
And the bright river gleams in its silver dreams 

Under the stars of the sky. 

Sleep, sleep, thy Father will keep 

Thee in his tenderest care, 
Until the pale dawn 

Of the rose-flushed morn 
Wakes thee to praise and to prayer. 

May 28, 1894. 

MARGARET 

Angels, have you seen my baby? 

She has left this shore to-day 
In her snowy scallop ; maybe 

She has sailed into your bay ; 
You will know her by the flowers 

Heaped within her tiny boat ; 
Scattered over her in showers 

When she left this port, afloat. 



LATEE POEMS 67 

You will know her, Angels fairest, 

By the broad and lovely brow, 
By the sweet lips, palest, rarest, 

Smiling softly. Even now 
I can see her dreaming, dreaming, 

Angels brightest, still of you ; 
Did she see your pinions gleaming 

In the distance % — Would I knew. 

She was such a tiny creature 

That we feared to let her go 
Where no human arms could reach her : 

Yet the dear Lord willed it so. 
Thro' the darkness, drifting, drifting 

From our land of pain and care 
Toward the Heavenly shore, uplifting 

Golden banks to guide her there. 

Angels, have you seen my baby ? 

Flash some message back to me, 
W T hen I know she's landed, may-be 

I can trust her then with thee. 
Thro' some star the brighter beaming 

Thy sweet comfort, oh, impart, 
Through some lily's whiteness gleaming 

Bear a message to my heart. 

For The St. Clair Republican, May 28, 1894. 



UNDEK THE IVY 

Under the ivy, lying so still, 

With quiet hands folded, feeling no thrill 

Of the tense life that burned him — no will 

Guiding his actions or ruling his ways ; 

No longer an impulse to do or to dare, 

Only to slumber, as he lies there 

Under the sunshine so warm and so fair, 

These fancifully fleeting golden days. 



68 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

What, then, is life which passes away, 

And what is this death, the autumn's decay. 

When Death conquers Life, and night conquers day, 

And living, or dying, we scarcely can tell. 

Is he asleep? That intelligent soul, 

Who struggled so hard to run his goal, 

And held all his powers beneath his control, 

To aid in the race, now finished so well ? 

Under the ivy ! Vain quest ; no reply 
Conies to our questions. God's beautiful sky 
Bends to us gently, and fairy leaves fly 
Over our feet, where lowly he lies. 
Under the ivy, in silence and peace, 
Enwrapped in God's mercy, which never can cease, 
Until that fair morning shall glow and increase 
In the glorious dawning of which he shall rise. 

November, 1900. 



OUT IN THAT UNKNOWN COUNTRY 

Out in that unknown country 

Whither you drifted, my dear, 
When the woods were brown and the leaves were down, 

And the meadows brown and sere. 

Out in the land which nobody knows 

Where they say are no pains nor tears, 
Where angel's feet press the golden street, 

You have been four weary years. 

Away from this land of shadows and sun, 

Away from its love and care, 
Oh, tell me, dear, are you happy as here 

Where we lovingly bore our share? 

Over there away from our life each day 
With never a kiss or caress, 



LATER POEMS 69 

Does the heavenly joy have no alloy 
And the blessings always bless ? 

Oh, whisper it low, and they never will know, 

Are there times in that endless day 
When you yearn for the smile which blessed you erstwhile 

Before you had wandered away ? 

And the touch of a hand in that beautiful land, 

Can they give you the love that I gave, 
Don't you miss the old love in your heaven above 

And long to return from your grave ? 

August 29, 1904. 



TOLSTOI IS DEAD 

Tolstoi is dead. 

Above his head 
We'll heap the drifting snow, 
And o'er his bed the wild winds blow. 
The passers by will never know 

Tolstoi is dead. 

Tolstoi is dead 

When that is said, 
It voices all of Russia's woe. 
The poor man's friend — of vice the foe. 
Among the dead his head lies low 

Tolstoi is dead. 

Tolstoi is dead 

Yet on his head 
The victor's crown should now be placed. 
Here lies the man who gladly faced 
The direst need — who rank effaced 

To aid his kind. 

August 20, 1910. 



70 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 



BESIDE HEK MOTHEB'S KKEE 

The rose white dawn that flushed the morn 

Has passed away, the noon 
So swift to enfold its banners gold 

Has furled them now, the moon 
Is rising high in the evening sky, 

The stars I dimly see 
And such a shade is o'er the maid • 

Who sat at Mother's knee. 

Once more in dreams I sew my seams, 

Once more her voice I hear 
With kindness fraught as when she taught 

So patiently and dear. 
Thro' all the Years, and all my tears 

Her face I still can see 
As when she smiled upon the child 

Who sat at Mother's knee. 

My hair is gray, the passing day 

Is in its gloaming now, 
Bright youth has fled, high hopes are dead 

And sorrow crowns my brow. 
I would not sigh as they pass by 

If only I might be 
Once more the child who sat and smiled 

Beside her Mother's knee. 

January, 1911. 

THE ELOWEK GIKL 

Little pleader, battered hat crown 
With the golden fleece 
That would tempt a Jason 
Shining through the crease. 
Blue, blue eyes uplifted 
Sweeter than her posies, 



LATEK POEMS 71 

Red, ripe lips half parted 
Redder than her roses. 

" Buy, oh buy/' she's pleading 

In the flute-like tones, 
" But a penny, see the vi'lets 
" All the earliest ones." 

The childish voice rings sweetly 

Thro' the crowded street, 

It fades away completely 

And lies a meadow sweet. 

The passers see the daisies 
That in fence corners grow, 
And all the shady places 
Their boyhood used to know, 
They pause with eyes grown misty 
Which are not used to tears, 
The violets and the daisies 
Have blotted out sad years. 

And still the childish crying 
" Please buy my flowers, please," 
And men not used to buying 
Pause here to purchase these. 
Again among the flowers 
In happy youth they roam, 
And spend the coming hours 
Care free, age free at home. 

Eebruary 11, 1911. 

THE NEW WOMAN 

Oh, where's the new woman ? I've hunted in vain 

This beautiful summer weather, 

On foot, on car, on steamer and train 

Eor the billycock hat and the miniature cane ; 

The collar and tie and the manly mien 

They seem to have vanished together. 



72 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

The bicycle skirt, the leggins, the stride, 
And the hat with its one stiff feather, 
The stiff shirtwaist and sundry beside 
All seem to have vanished together. 

Or who is this being of frills and of lace 
And tresses so fluffy and golden, 
With innocent sweetness of beautiful face, 
And sweet girlish ways full of maidenly grace. 

Oh, back she has come with her ribbons and laces, 

This beautiful maiden — to stay. 

The awful New Woman she gently effaces 

With picturesque hat and gentlest of faces, 

Girlish attire and daintiest graces, 

God bless her— The Girl of To-day. 



TO EEVEEEND AND MES. S. 

May your sun be often shining 

And gently fall the dew : 
Your clouds have silver lining 

And love be strong and true. 
With a smile for every trouble 

And for every wrong a laugh, 
So your pleasures will be double 

And your grief will be but half. 

September 7, 1912. 



DEDICATED TO THE OLD HOESE 

The snow's on the ground and ice in the street, 
The air is so cold and so thin, 
There is no grass for your frozen feet, 
And the oats are gone out of the bin. 



LATER POEMS 73 

But live, horse ! live, horse ! the winter will pass ; 
The robin will sing on the tree, 
And out in the pastures the tender green grass 
Will spring up in plenty for thee. 

Your barn is so cold and so lonely, I know, 
With never a friend around, 
But horses, I know, are out in the snow 
Where shelter is not to be found. 

Live, horse ! live, horse ! the spring time is near, 
And soon will the cold winter go. 
Birds will be singing and tender grass springing 
For thee — little horse — f roni the snow. 

March 4, 1912. 



HOUSEWIFE'S GUIDE 

If a hen is old and tough 
Her spurs are hard, her scales are rough, 
Her bill is stiff, you cannot bend her, 
Leave her for one more young and tender, 
With little spurs, comb smooth and thin ; 
Scales glossy smooth, claws will bend in, 
Comb thin and smooth, soft tender bill, 
Buy her, fry her, and eat your fill. 

A turkey hen when she is old 

Has scales so rough, claws long and bold, 

Long tuft or beard — a young one shows 

No beard, smooth legs and tender toes. 

A tender goose has smooth soft legs, 

Bend back the wing — the skin will break, 

And legs are smooth — the goose you'll take. 

And as for ducks the same rule goes, 
Smooth legs, soft skin and tender toes 
A pigeon when its legs are red, 
And down all dead is no use dead. 



74 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 



WRITTEN FOR C. D. P. 



" How do you do," said Mrs. Cat, 
Bowing very low ! 
" I'm very well," said Mr. Rat 
" You see I'm fine and plump and fat, 
But now I've got to go." 

" Stay, stay and talk," cried Mrs. Cat 
" You see, I love you so." 
" I know you do," said Mr. Rat, 
" You'd love to eat me up I know. 
Good-by, I've got to go." 



Little Miss Piggie sat in her sty, 
And wished for an opera hat 
And Master Pig was passing by 
And stopped for a little chat. 

" Under the acorn tree," said he, 
" The nuts are large and good, 
Come on and help me eat them up." 
Said Pig, " I wish I could." 



THE BLUE IRIS 

There's a blue iris not badly done 
On the papered wall of my cozy room, 
And as I sit in the early dawn 
What memories rush into bloom. 
The delicate blue of its fragile face 
Shines up from the brooklet's bank, 
At the base of the hill — the very place 
Where golden rod grew rank. 

And once again an untrained child 
I roam those emerald hills and vales, 



LATEE POEMS 75 

I chase the lambkin, myself more wild, 

And float my tiny sails. 

I fish in the little brook and weep 

Because my treasures die, 

When I took the bottle to make them keep 

And hang on a branch up high. 

O blue-eyed iris, in your face I see 

The spring at the foot of the hill 

So clear and limpid — the striped love grass 

And maiden hair growing there still. 

The old gourd chained from which we drank, 

The milk house — log built — near — 

With pebbly bottom — the great crocks sank 

In its water running clear. 

The plum trees down in the hollow bloom 

And cover the hills with snow, 

As the blossoms fall — and now there is room 

For the fruitage crimson glow. 

Over the hill on a rocky ledge 

Great pine trees grow, I stand again 

Alone and awed on the precipice' edge 

And listen to their summer rain. 

Again I see the red bird flit 

From branch to branch a scarlet flame 

And hear him whistle loud and clear 

The iris brings these memories back. 

Of childhood vanished for many a year. 



TO A FLY FOUND DEAD IN A SUGAR BOWL 

Tired little feet upgathered 
Rainbow-tinted wings upcurled, 
Which were wont to aid thy journey 
Little Buzzer 'round the world. 
Captive here in sweetest prison 
Quite hemmed in by treasures sweet, 



76 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Did your eyes in triumph glisten 
And your heart responsive beat ? 

Standing on the edge — looking down 
Seeing sugar far beneath, 
Did you think those golden granules 
Worth to you the price of death ? 
Did you see in it — Elysian 
Great reward for doing, Fly — 
And encouraged by the vision 
Seek the goal to do or die — 

Never — never more to nutter 
On your iris-tinted wings ; 
Little feet in death are gathered 
Now have ceased their journeyings. 
Life for you has been the fleetest 
You have tasted it — completest 
And the verdict which is metest 
Died of all that's sweetest. 

Little type of mortal striving 
After pleasures manifold, 
Seeking — seeking — never giving 
Bartering life itself for gold ; 
Note the insect struggling, dying 
And the goal within its reach. 
Learn the lesson — man applying 
Which this little fly can teach. 

February 6, 1911. 



THE CLOVER AND I 

Down in the meadow the clover and I 
Used in the shimmering shadows to lie. 
If the sun went up or the sun went down 
The clover and I, we cared not a crown, 



LATEK POEMS 77 

For the bee would hum and the lark would soar, 
And the grasshopper chirp at his emerald door 
As we drank to the full life's meadow lore, 
The clover and I. 

Down in the meadow the clover and I 
Learned of the breezes to mournfully sigh, 
The beautiful head of the clover grew brown 
And my own as white as the thistle's crown, 
And bees sought out the fairer flowers, 
And the chill rains beat our emerald bowers, 
And all was waste which once was ours, 
And life a sigh ! 

Down in the meadow the violet sprang 
And caught in her chalice the fragrance of song, 
Where golden gay dandelions lighted the grass, 
And the wood sorrel lifted its rosy glass. 
Down in the meadow the clover and I 
In the long bright days would coolly lie 
And smile at the clouds as wafting by 
They shadowed us. 

Down in the meadow there came one day 
A reaper, who carried my darling away. 
And never again was the sky so bright, 
The clover so red or the daisy so white 
For a cloud had fallen that would not pass, 
An invisible chill has shrivelled the grass. 
And alone in the meadow I linger at last 
Quite eager to go. 



SOMEWHEKE 

Somewhere in her bower of beauty 
With eyes as blue as the sea, 
The wonderful maid of my dreaming 
Is waiting and watching for me. 



78 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

She comes with the gold in her tresses, 
And her fairy like dancing feet, 
With the smile of the spring she caresses, 
I know her, mj sweet, my sweet ! 

1914. 



A PLEA 

Only a poor old man 
Asking a home, nothing more, 
Adrift in an alien sea 
Wrecked on your friendly shore. 
Once he was young and brave 
And his life loomed large and free, 
But now there seems but a grave 
Waiting for such as he. 

Only a poor old man 
Praying for daily bread, 
Asking of you some little space 
To rest his gray old head. 
Homeless and feeble and poor, 
Adrift on an alien sea, 

Brought by the tide to your friendly shore, 
Help for humanity ! 

San Francisco, 1913. 

TO THE ALUMNI OF B. F. A. 

Fifty years! and in the seeming 
Scarce a decade can have passed; 
But tonight I fall to dreaming, 
Once again I see the gleaming 
Of that time too fair to last. 

Back again to girlhood's pleasures 
And those early friends of mine ; 



LATEE POEMS 79 

All the heart of woman treasures 
All the joy, that dear time measures 
Blessed days of Auld Lang Syne ! 

How many of you are gathered around the Board to-night? 
How many have passed into that silent land of which we have 
no data ? I do not know. To you assembled at this table I 
send greeting. We are still girls together. What matter if 
the hair is gray? What matter if the step is inelastic? and 

" Care and sorrow and childbirth pain 
Have left their trace on heart and brain," 

for to-night — only to-night — let us be girls together ; let us 
once more run the gauntlet of (supposed) tyrant teachers and 
smuggle oranges and eggs (tabooed) into the cottage; let us 
jump over the traces to-night, though most of us have learned 
long since to trot meekly enough, in double harness ; let us for- 
get life as it is and for one brief hour enjoy life as it was. 
' O Girls ! Let's ! 

We are tired of care, let's rest ; we are weary of its duties, 
let's forget them ; of its fashions, let's ignore them. No hobble- 
skirt shall hobble us tonight. No militant suffragist shall throw 
a bomb. Nobody shall remember the " burning questions " of 
the day. Wireless shall not exist. The telephone shall be dis- 
connected. No automobile shall toot a horn. To-night — only 
to-night is our's ; and though I may not be with you in body, in 
heart and memory I am there; and to the Alumni of the never 
forgotten and always dear old school I send greeting. 

Tillie Beadshaw Swales. 

May 27, 1913. 



PAIN 

We walked together, Pain and I, 
For many a long and weary year ; 
" Oh, leave me, Pain," I oft would cry, 
And he would just as oft reply, 
" Not till you hold me dear." 



80 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

And now 'tis so — for well I know 
He is God's teacher here below. 
We're comrades now, and walking so 
The Master draweth near. 

January 30, 1914. 



SPRING SONG 

Dedicated to the Detroit Free Press 

" The wind's in the south, and the wind's in the west ! " 

Oh, this is the story I hear, 

The robins have come — poor little red breast, 

And the dandelion's gold can easy be guessed 

Thro' the leaves and the muck of last year. 

For spring's in the air, and blue gleams the sky 

And his heart is aglow with hope, 

So he sings and he whistles a melody 

As he fumbles with book, rod, and fly 

And he gets out the towing rope. 

The wind's in the north, and the wind's in the east, 

The dust blows a cloud in my eyes: 

But the author of " Spring " may easy be Guest, 

The happy-go-lucky poet and pest, 

Who cares not a groat if he lies. 

My coat's buttoned tight, fur cap on my head 

In spite of the stories I hear, 

All the robins red, must be frozen dead 

And the dandelions never have lifted a head, 

To whisper that spring is near. 

1914. 

PARTRIDGE SONG 

The woods are alight with the stars of the night, 
The flowers of spring 'neath my feet, 

And the grand old trees are kissed by the breeze 
Oh, come to me, Sweet, sweet, sweet ! 



LATEK POEMS 81 

You are waiting, I know, where the wild roses blow, 

You are waiting and listening for me, 
And I'm longing for you, and I'm calling for you, 

As I drum on the old hollow tree. 

The sweet spring is here and the blood runs warm 

In beast, in bird, and in tree, 
And under the ferns where the columbine burns 

My love lies in ambush for me. 



1914. 



CHKISTMAS DAY 

Oh, somewhere out in the land of love 

There's a light in the window for me, 

As bright as the moon that's shining above 

As tall as the tallest tree. 

Shine on, shine on, oh, light of love, 

Tho' I am so far away 

I'm coming, I'm coming, to find my love 

For this is Christmas Day. 

The candles are lighted, the tree is aglow, 

And the hearts are leal and true. 

Dear heart, cheer up, tho' your light burn low 

There's a light in the window for you. 

Shine on, shine on, O beautiful light, 

I'm coming, I'm on my way. 

Though rough the path and dark the night, 

Eor this is Christmas Day. 

O beautiful light that shines from afar 
And calls me, I'm on my way. 
It leads my heart like Bethlehem's star 
Eor this is Christmas Day. 



82 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 



THE MYSTEBY OF THE DAWN 



Between the dark and the daylight 
The earth is very still, 
And mists rise up so silver white 
Over each hamlet and hill. 
They rise, they march like sheeted ghosts 
And none may say them nay, 
Bank on rank, and hosts on hosts 
They pass their silent way. 

Up from the valley and over the hill 
These silent cohorts go, 
Whence they come — so strong and still 
Who can say, and who may know. 
Then in the east a shaft of light 
Pink as the heart of a shell ; 
Golden now where once 'twas white 
And the clouds come under the spell. 

The sheeted ghosts seem royal guests 
Clad in white, and purple, and fawn. 
Silently they march to the west, 
The mystery of the dawn. 
With colors furled in full retreat 
They rise o'er the shadowy lake, 
And then the dawn and the daylight meet 
And all the world is awake. 



December 13, 1915. 

FOE ME 



The russet and gold of the mountain, 
The silver and blue of the sea ; 
The rose-white dawn of the morning 
Are painted in glory for me. 



LATEE POEMS 83 

The stars in the midnight are shining; 
The flowers abloom on the lea ; 
The rollicking birds in the branches, 
All — all are created for me. 

Then sing, oh, my soul, and be joyful, 

Oh, cheerily, cheerily sing, 
Come join the gay birds in their chorus 

To welcome the coming of Spring. 



Somewhere in her bower of beauty, 

With eyes as blue as the sea 
The wonderful maid of my dreaming 

Is waiting and watching for me. 
She comes with the gold in her tresses, 

Her brow like the foam of the sea ; 
With the smile of the Spring she caresses 

And she is the maid for me. 

Then sing, oh, my soul, and be joyful, 

Oh, cheerily, cheerily sing; 
Come join the gay birds in their chorus 

To welcome the coming of Spring. 



March, 1915. 



TO " VEE " WITH A PAIE OE SLIPPEES 

These are for the sweetest Baby 
With the very sweetest eyes ; 

Maybe they will fit — and maybe 
Santa didn't know the size. 

Eor you see there are so many 
Little feet that he must shoe, 

That you needn't wonder any 
If he didn't quite fit you. 
Xmas, 1915. 



84 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 



HOW QUIET ARE THE WORKS OF GOD 

How silently the full orbed moon 

Fulfils her appointed round, 

The bright eyed stars arise and shine 

In silence most profound. 

And the green grasses wave in time 

Where silent graves are made, 

Above the spot which may be mine 

When I to sleep am laid. 

Little birds in little nests, 
Little babes on mothers' breasts 
Finding there most precious rests 
Free from care and all life's quests, 
For the birds all skies are blue, 
For the babes all love is true. 
Ah ! if only I and you 
So could trust as life we view. 

January 25, 1916. 



MY YOUTH'S FAREWELL 

My youth, my youth with the shining hair 

And the clear bright eye, the dancing feet ; 
When all the days were passing fair, 

And all of life was good and sweet. 
Together we've wandered amid the flowers 

And danced through the sunny maze, 
For faith and truth and love were ours, 

And all the days were golden days. 

My youth, my youth, come with me rejoice, 
For the day is young and bright and gay, 

But back on the breeze came his laughing voice, 
" I've lingered too long, no longer I'll stay " 



LATER POEMS 85 

And his tones are thrillingly sweet 

" For your step is slow and your head is gray 
And youth and age can never meet." 

Farewell, dear comrade, of so many years, 
As you dance away with your airy tread, 

I stand alone. Through a glimmer of tears 
I can see the halo around your head. 

March 16, 1916, Los Angeles, Cal. 



THE MISSION OF PAIN 

Through pain a child is born into the world, 

Unknowing and unknown is hurled 

Into the vortex we call life — 

His untried feet are set to tread the path his father trod 

Through storm and sunshine leading up to God. 

Through pain the shriven soul has flown 

Again into the great unknown, 

Upward, still up to the great white throne, 

Victorious over pain and strife. 

August 28, 1916. 



EAELY PEOSE WORKS 

OUE LANGUAGE 

(School Composition) 

It has been said that our English Language is not expressive. 
Linguists speak glowingly of heroic Greek, and majestic Latin 
whose rolling periods succeed each other in tones not unlike 
the stately notes of martial music; they revel in the sparkling 
vivacity of the French and the grand simplicity of the ancient 
Anglo-Saxon and yet say that the English, a compound of them 
all, is inexpressive. Surely not. It is a mountain of gems if 
one will only pause to brush aside the dust of prejudice that 
conceals them. It is a perfect picture gallery filled with grand, 
glowing scenes if one will only enter and view. 

From out this innumerable collection we may select a few 
paintings, bring them out into the light and note carefully their 
beauties. 

What a picture does our word 'patient present. A patient 
woman, and instantly before us arises a fair, sweet face with 
brown, wavy hair parted softly over a brow where shadows may 
once have rested, deep, earnest blue eyes which are no strang- 
ers to tears, and a sweet faint patient smile resting peacefully 
upon the lips. Such is patience. Such the picture hidden 
within the studio of one little word. 

Again we have the word holy — A holy Temple — Now is 
there an awe pervading the " holy ground." A silence that may 
be felt shadows all. Through the darkened windows steals the 
softened twilight — solemn music floods the church, swelling 
and sinking in unison with the emotions of hearts there " gath- 
ered together." Oh, how thrillingly fall the words — " The 
Lord is in His holy Temple," and there creeps over the heart 
the solemn, delicious yet awe-ful feeling of the presence of holi- 
ness. Surely there is a gem in the heart of that word holy. 

86 



EAKLY PKOSE WOKKS 87 

There are other words equally rich in beauty. These two are 
not exceptions. How expressive is the word murmur, of gush- 
ing streamlets and the faint whisper of the wind through the 
trees, or the busy hum of bees, which one can hear ringing out 
from the flower bells. 

What a hidden picture in the word sublime. A picture of 
dark, lowering clouds, of flashing lightnings, and angry thun- 
ders ; of the mighty ceaseless voices that are uttered by Niagara 
u of all that awes and terrifies and yet subdues." 

Ah ! Latin may be majestic, French may be sparkling, Ancient 
Anglo full of simplicity, but the English, our own language, is 
the gallery in which are at once pictures of sparkling waters, 
and pleasant fields, of scenes that awe one's very soul, and of 
thoughts that lift the heart from Earth to Heaven. 

September 16, 1862. 

COKONATIONS 

Graduation Composition (Honorable, Mention) 

" A crown for the victor — a crown of light." In all ages 
men have chosen crowns for the emblems of honor. Crowns for 
the prince, crowns for the poet, crowns for all the world deems 
worthy. It is childhood's expression of love, manhood's of 
honor. Little children crown their queens with blossoms, men 
crown their monarchs with jewels. Christmas day in Rome! 
Came one, a haughty monarch, to worship in the Romish 
church. All was wealth and splendor. Golden candle-sticks 
held strangely fragrant tapers that shot up flames to glitter on 
the fretted ceiling, resounding deep-toned music rolled through 
the vaulted chapel, garlands of evergreen decked the church, the 
image of Mary and the Child rose in fair purity from the 
altar, the priests were performing their mystic rights, the mon- 
arch, kneeling with bowed head, on downy cushions at the altar. 
Then and there by sacred hands was he crowned — " Charle- 
magne, Emperor of the West." Everything of the crown was a 
jewel, every jewel shot forth myriad fires. And he, the favor- 
ite of the world arose, the haughty forehead shadowed by the 



88 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

precious garland, arose to hear from every lip of that great 
multitude joyous congratulations and welcome. 

Not a voice was heard which did not ascribe to the new Em- 
peror. Not a knee was there which would not bow to do him 
homage. And why was he thus honored % 

As a king he reigned with a rigid rule. Thousands of his 
captives, in one short day, were destroyed by his commands. 
Yet Charlemagne, physically, mentally, and by his coronation in 
life was superior to them all, in strength a Samson, in intellect 
a prodigy, in condition a king, the people knew him for master 
and accepted him. Again, Eome gave a coronal. Not now 
was the scene at the altar of a splendid church, but at the throne 
of the Capitol ; not now was the honored one a king but a poet ; 
not now a son of wealth but of genius. 

A glad procession thronged to the Temple preceded by young 
nobles bearing garlands of flowers. Princes and nobles sur- 
rounded the throne. A senator assumed the exalted seat. " At 
the voice of a herald Petrarch came," knelt humbly before the 
throne and received a crown of laurel leaves with the more pre- 
cious words, " This is the reward of merit." Then the air trem- 
bles with the acclamations of the crowd, " Long life to the 
Capitol and the poet " ring out, and was echoed and re-echoed 
until the very clouds returned the happy refrain. " This is the 
reward of merit." For eighteen years had Petrarch striven for 
the glory of that honor. For eighteen years had he followed the 
Daphne of fame, and at last, after his weary race, when he 
would clasp her to his bosom, she " was not," and his arms, like 
Apollo's, encircled but the rugged trunk of the laurel tree. 

He had climbed the tree of ambition and grasped the glow- 
ing apples but to find them turned to bitter ashes, for his, a 
poet's soul, must have felt that half the shouting throng, wor- 
shipped only because the nobles did. And this is the bitter- 
sweet coronation of Intellect. 

Again a king was crowned. Not in the church, not in the 
capitol, but in the " judgment hall " of Jerusalem. Now no sol- 
emn music flooded the hall, no choral singing was heard, no 
fragment tapers were lighted, but, alone, a stranger in His own 
Kingdom stood the King. No garment glittering with gems and 
furred with ermine was his, but for a coronation robe " They 



EAKLY PROSE WORKS 89 

took a scarlet robe and put it on him." No crown heavy with 
its wealth of diamonds, or green with the laurels of glory was 
placed by consecrated hands upon his head, but " when they had 
platted a crown of thorns they put it upon his head." No scep- 
tre gave they him but put a reed into his hand. Oh, that the 
Lord of Heaven and Earth should have had such a coronation ! 
Oh, that his crown should be of thorns, his sceptre a reed, his robe 
a robe of mockery. Exulting cries burst indeed from the multi- 
tude, cries of derision, " Hail, King of the Jews," and " they 
took the reed and smote him on the head." And this was the 
coronation of the Friend of man, the " Holy one of Israel." 
Man could bow with suppliant knee to the powerful " Emperor 
of the West," could shout exulting praise to the poet Laureate of 
Italy ; but to Christ the " Prince of Peace " he could give but 
scornful mockery. 

And so it is from age to age. To physical strength, to wealth 
and position man is ever ready to extend the eager idolatry, the 
crown and the sceptre of jewels. To a superior intellect he 
bows, as heathens do to stars, feeling that they are infinitely 
above him and worthy of adoration. To the king in intellect 
he offers a transient " In Memoriam " on the fickle tablets of 
his heart, a crown of fading leaves emblematic of short lived 
glory, and this is all. But to the " Pure in Heart," to those 
" who are in the world and yet not of the world " he has naught 
to offer but thorns and reeds and mockery, naught but a shame- 
ful cross of suffering. Greater heroes than the world ever 
crowned are daily in our paths. Their names are not men- 
tioned in honor, their brows have never borne the precious 
weight of a victor's coronal, yet forgiving the rest, in life, 
wearing patiently its crown of thorns, drinking cheerfully its 
cup of gall : 

" Though the trembling lips may shrink 
White with anguish as they drink, 
And the forehead sweat with pain 
Drops of blood like purple rain." 

Only the few in the little world of home think them worthy, 
and One other who in the future shall crown them " with glory 
and with honor." 

He who goes nobly forth to battle for his country and for 



90 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

glory, is brave, but the one who stills his eager heart that fain 
would follow the glorious course of his country's emblem be- 
cause stern duty holds him with his rigid chain — is he not 
braver ? 

His is not the battle of a day but the battle of a lifetime, one 
constant struggle to stifle longings for the world's approbation, 
and to win Heaven's, And the World ! 

It crowns the one with glory and with jewels, the other with 
dishonor and thorns. The one it honors as a soldier, the other it 
brands as a coward. That fair woman who stood among the 
wounded and dying, careless of self, giving all of her care to 
them until her own frail life was almost sacrificed, was truly 
noble. The world for once in justice cherishes every syllable 
of her dear name, but were not those who sent forth the wounded 
ones in the full glory of manhood, sent them forth with their 
blessings and prayers, to death — were they not noble ? 

And yet we hear not of these heroic women, their noble hearts 
may break with grief, closely the painful thorns may clasp 
their brow, and that is all their glory. They are in our streets 
and alleys, in our factories and mills, these thorn crowned heroes 
and heroines ; daughters who give their young lives to labor for 
younger sisters and helpless guardians, forgetting self in love 
and duty; sons who yield up life's dearest hopes to guard, 
with patient tenderness, their parents' pathway for a little time 
until the angels shall relieve them of their charge. 

The good Samaritans who give their last morsel of bread to 
those they deem more needy. Are they not worthy of a corona- 
tion ? But does the world ever crown them ? Yes, with pierc- 
ing thorns, with poverty and sneers, or perhaps the cheap boon of 
pity. But is there no reward for those who tread with bleeding 
feet the rugged path of duty ? for those the world forgets, or if 
remembers, remembers but with scorn? On the last day each 
shall be crowned, not with thorns, not with fading leaves, nor 
yet with gems from the heart of the earth, but with a crown of 
immortality which " God the righteous judge shall give him at 
that day." " They too, though sojourning here, shall have their 
reward. Their coronation shall be in the Audience Chamber of 
the Eternal Heavens when God who seeth in secret but reward- 
eth openly shall place crowns upon their brows and palms in 



EARLY PROSE WOEKS 91 

their hands, while an assembled universe from the heights above, 
and from the depths beneath, and from the wide circle of the dis- 
tant stars shall respond " Amen." 

Zanesville High School. 
May 16, 1862. 



SERAPHINA FAIRBANKS 

This namesake of the angels was born at Lowndes. I cannot 
tell how she became possessed of her Christian name. Perhaps, 
in her unfledged childhood, her tender mother may have de- 
tected some real or fancied resemblance to the higher powers in 
the little pink face and half-opened eyes, and in the plentitude 
of her happiness called her Seraphina. How it was I cannot 
say, but certain it is that so she was christened. It is due to 
truth that I confess, when I saw Seraphina, I could trace no like- 
ness to the inhabitants of Heaven ; but that may be owing to my 
notion of the angels being rather queer. This notion was formed 
in early childhood, and has " grown with my growth and 
strengthened with my strength " ; for even now, I can never 
think of an angel as other than some cloudy shape clothed in a 
white dress, with a " crown upon the forehead, and a harp 
within the hand," and they all stand in a row around the Throne. 
I do not speak irreverently ; I merely assert what is the idea of 
Heaven and its inhabitants which nine Sabbath scholars out of 
ten possess. 

But, as I said, Seraph didn't look like these. She always 
wore green, and never had a crown ; besides, she was never 
known to possess a harp, though she did sometimes indulge in a 
few plaintive strains from a guitar. In summer, a single white 
rose graced her rather thin hair, which she wore in little short 
curls ; and in winter, a piece of evergreen supplied the place of 
the rose; for Seraphina was sentimental. 

I won't say any more of her resemblance, real or fancied, 
but will describe her, and you can judge for yourselves. 

Seraph was very tall — stately, her mother said ; very thin 
— delicate that same partial judge affirmed ; her face was long 



92 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

and sharp, mouth large, but which, when she laughed, and 
the thin lips were parted, revealed a fine set of even white 
teeth — Seraph's only beauty — eyes small, sharp and grey — 
" vivacious " her mother would have called them, but " prying " 
would be more true to nature ; and the one aim for which she 
lived was to find some kindred spirit which every one is said 
to possess. For this, she attended church night and morning; 
for this, she paid ten dollars for a false braid, used cosmetics, 
read poems, visited picture-galleries, attended soldier's aid so- 
cieties — in fact, did every thing else but propose. 

Well, leap-year had come, and brought with it Seraphina's 
thirtieth birthday — " not so old " Seraphina said, " but too 
old for a single lady " ; and, besides, she had found a silver 
thread lying in bold relief among her dark curls. Poor Seraph 
sat down and cried — not a stifled sob or two, but a real woman's 
cry. All the floodgates were opened, and the bitter fountain 
parted with some of its most bitter drops. That cry eased her 
heart wonderfully. She arose relieved, bathed her tear-stained 
face, and descended to the breakfast-room with the firm con- 
viction stamped on brain and heart that something must be 
done. 

" Seraph," said her mother, at the table, " will you pass the 
butter?" 

" Something must be done," answered Seraph, not hearing the 
question, and not looking up. 

" Why, daughter, what must be done ? I asked you to pass 
the butter. What ails you, dear ? " 

At this, Seraph started, colored, lifted the plate with a 
trembling hand ; and too trembling it proved to be, for the plate 
fell ; and, as a natural consequence, butter, knife, ice, and dish 
each took its separate way, trying to roll farther and do more 
damage than its neighbor. This crash aroused Seraph. The 
tears started, but by dint of biting her lips and clenching her 
hands she managed to restrain them; and the meal passed off 
without further accident, though Mrs. Fairbanks affirmed: 

" My goodness gracious ! Seraphina, you will kill me before 
the meal is over yet ! " 

Breakfast dispatched, and the dishes disposed of, Seraphina 
took off the great check apron, rolled down her sleeves, went 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 93 

through some mysterious toilet, and finally emerged from the 
front door, rosy-cheeked and smiling, and took her way to the 
young doctor's office. 

Now, this young doctor, though not wealthy, was in com- 
fortable circumstances, and generally considered a " good 
catch." He was well known to be fond of practical jokes; 
and at the identical moment of Seraphina's emergence from 
her own door, was sitting at the window of his office with two 
confidential friends. They were smoking and having a fine 
time generally, when the Doctor spied Seraphina coming toward 
his office. He had just been talking of the kindness she had 
manifested frequently toward himself, persistently hanging on 
his arm at picnics, and keeping him near her at all social 
gatherings. 

" Jove ! " he ejaculated, with a prolonged whistle, " here is the 
angel herself. Now, boys, fun alive! She's had that anti- 
quated cap set for me these two years. There is the bell. 
Here," opening a door leading to a small room adjoining, 
" pitch in there. Baize thin — can hear every word. Mind 
you, keep your mouths shut, and we'll have some fun." 

Pell-mell the two friends tumbled in through the open door, 
which the Doctor closed ; then smoothed his face down, and at 
the time of his visitor's entrance was most diligently studying 
an intricate passage in anatomy, with the book upside down. 

" Good morning, Doctor," she exclaimed, blithely, when ush- 
ered into the sanctum, offering her hand. " A beautiful morn- 
ing, isn't it? I declare this weather makes me feel like a 
child. I know you'll laugh at me if I tell you, but I was out 
helping our neighbors' children make a snow man this morn- 
ing. Dear innocents, it makes my heart glad to see them so 
happy; and I feel as much a child as any of them, though to- 
day is my twentieth birthday." 

Here a suppressed giggle came from the green baize door; 
but the Doctor said gravely : " We are almost eaten up here 
by rats. They squeal dreadfully sometimes." 

" Eats ! " she responded, " oh, dear ! that's bad ! I must 
bring you a piece of toasted cheese and a trap to-night. My, 
how they act ! " as the giggle was heard again, and a slight 
scuffling. " Ain't you afraid, Doctor Gay ? By-the-way, I 



94 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

said to-day was my birthday. Do you know at twenty years 
old I begin to feel ancient already, child as I am?" 

" I am twenty-five/' said the Doctor pleasantly, " and I don't 
feel old. But what's the matter, Miss Seraphina? Any one 
sick at your home ? " 

" Oh, no ! I wanted you to examine my teeth ; some of them 
must need attention before this time, surely." 

~Now, considering that this same set of teeth had been ex- 
amined regularly every two weeks by the same physician, the 
examination was quickly finished, teeth pronounced perfect, and 
the Doctor stood as though awaiting the egress of his visitor. 
Still, Seraphina lingered. 

" How disordered your books are ! " she finally gasped, flush- 
ing scarlet. " You need some one to arrange them for you." 
" Yes, I know," returned the wicked doctor ; " but you never 
can know how it is, Miss Seraphina, I am alone in the world ; 
none feel enough interest to do it for me, and I do not like to 
place my books in servants' hands." 

Seraph advanced to his chair, and said, timidly yet eagerly: 
" I should love dearly to do it for you, dear Doctor Gay. 
But, seriously, don't you think you would be happier with a — ■ 
a — wife ? " 

" Undoubtedly I should," said the Doctor, putting his hand- 
kerchief to his mouth ; " but, dear Miss Seraphina, I cannot, 
dare not, hope. I cannot ask her I love, for she is five years 
younger than I, and I fear has never thought of me. I dare 
not risk." 

Seraphina advanced yet nearer to his chair. 
" Why not ? " she said, softly. " I am sure that no one could 
refuse you." 

" Do you really think there is hope ? " came from the depths 
of the handkerchief. " O Miss Seraphina, are you sure there 
is hope for me ? Are you not deceiving me ? " 

" Look in my eyes, dear Edward," returned the angel, taking 
his hand in both of hers, " and see if I am deceiving you. Do 
you see any doubt there? O my morning star — my kindred 
spirit ! " 

" ~No, no ! " said the Doctor, with lips nobly striving to be 
calm ; " you are goodness itself, Seraphina, but then — but 
then — " 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 95 

" But what then, Edward ? It is foolish to be so fearful/' 
and Seraph pressed her lips to the hand her left one held. 

" So it is — so it is ! " said the Doctor. " I will be brave. 
Will you ask her for me, Seraphina ? " 

Seraph smiled. 

" You are joking, dear Edward. There is no use in asking 
her now, is there % Oh ! let these arms enfold you ! I have 
found you at last, my kindred spirit.' 7 

The Doctor evaded the opened arms by grasping one of 
Seraph's hands and exclaiming with fervor: 

" How kind you are ! Eirst let me take that rose from your 
hair and fix your nubia. There, that is right. Miss Seraphina, 
will you bear my suit to Mary Lee ? " 

" Mary Lee ! O you perfidious man ; you wretch, you rascal ! 
Mary Lee ! Mary Lee ! " 

The screams rose higher and shriller, and Seraphina started 
for the door; but turning suddenly, she met the mischievous 
faces of the Doctor's friends, who were peering through the 
torn baize, and heard the uproarious laughter. 

" Stop, Miss Seraphina, here's your false hair; it came off 
when I fixed your nubia ! " cried the Doctor after her. 

But down the steps flew Seraphina, leaving the false braid 
in the Doctor's hand, hearing only the shouts of laughter from 
the Doctor's room. Out into the street — down to her own 
home — up to her room — slammed the door — and then gave 
wav to tears and answer. 

The next morning, a coil of hair was found twined around 
the bell-knob, and on it this significant couplet, carefully 
penned : 

" When maids embrace, they should be sure 
To have their hair pinned on secure! " 

Saturday, March 26, 1864. 



ALMOST SHIPWEECKED 

Grant Holmes, gay, impulsive, fascinating Grant Holmes, 
was married : and, what was of more consequence, had married 
from out of his " set " ; so said Rumor, so said Truth ; and the 



96 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" dear five-hundred " speculated and wondered, until their 
heads ached, as to the probable happiness or misery of the 
ill-assorted couple. Not that Clara Holman was unworthy the 
alliance personally — oh no. Everybody declared Clara " well 
enough/ 7 but then — but then — ah " there was the rub." 
Clara was the daughter of a mantua-niaker ; afar in the distance 
there was a sad, sad story, that Clara's blue eyes had not first 
opened in a palace, nor her first steps taken on velvet, but tot- 
tered upon the bare floors of a county-almshouse. Long before 
she could remember, her mother had become a successful woman, 
and Clara was reared in elegance — attending the finest schools, 
and finally emerging from them -a bright refined accomplished 
lady — to be seen, wooed, and won by Grant Holmes. He mar- 
ried her, well knowing all of her story, for she was too hon- 
orable to deceive him in the least; and if his proud blood did 
boil sometimes at the recollection, he only turned the more 
proudly and truly to his elegant, idolizing wife. Mrs. Grundy 
might fret and fume, but what cared he. 

For two years his wife was, indeed, " his moonlight, star- 
light, firelight," his " white rose of all the world." Then 
came a change ; and this is how it came about : — A second 
cousin of Grant's died, leaving an only child, a daughter, 
homeless, and made it her dying request that Grant should be 
guardian over the child, and take her to his home, which he 
accordingly did. Aline Grant was, generally, not even pretty, 
but she was petite, and had dark, flashing eyes, and glossy brown 
curls. She was, I said, generally not even pretty, but there 
were moments when she was more than pretty, when her whole 
face was alive with feeling, and her eyes gleamed passionately 
through the bright falling curls, and her full, clear tones rang 
out in liquid melody. Aline was a fine singer, and a good con- 
versationalist, and a sad flirt. She had been with Grant Holmes 
not quite a month, when a circumstance occurred which made 
her forever a bitter enemy to Clara. She had been out walking 
with Clara, and just as they were going into the front door, on 
their return, Aline heard a boy, standing near, say to another : 
" The tall one's the poor-house bird, but 'tother looks more like 
it." 

Here, then, was rivalry, between the well-born Aline Grant 



EARLY PEOSE WOEKS 97 

and the " poor-house bird," Clara Holman, and Aline's eyes 
flashed at the degradation. She had not forgiven Clara for 
her impudence in accepting her cousin, nor for her haughty 
manners, and she never could. As far as she loved any one she 
loved Grant Holmes; and now her resolution was formed. 

" Are you tired to-night, Grantie ? " asked Aline, one evening 
when he was sitting unusually wearied in the gathering twilight, 
and she drew a low stool to his feet, and sat down there — her 
usual seat now — leaning her head upon his knees. 

" No, Lena," he answered, letting his hand fall caressingly 
upon her curls, and linger there, " I am not too tired to talk to 
you." 

" Aren't you, Cozzie. I am so glad. Did I tell you that we 
were down to the Infirmary to-day, and saw the woman who has 
been there nearly thirty years. She talked a great deal about 
those who were born there, and gave us quite an interesting ac- 
count of their changes of circumstances during that time. 
What ails you, cousin ? you shudder." 

" Nothing ails me, Lena ; I was slightly chilly, that is all ; go 
on." 

" Oh, I've no more to say ; but, Grantie, think of being an in- 
mate of that place! Oh, it is dreadful! I don't wonder the 
person has to bear the stigma through life. Surely no refined 
man could love a person born in such place ! " 

Grant Holmes was fearfully proud, and this seed of dis- 
content in his fortune, and contempt for his wife, was skillfully 
sown, and before he was aware that it had dropped, it was 
" bringing forth fruit." 

Months passed on, and Clara had grown accustomed to being 
left alone ; Aline and her husband rode, walked, and chatted to- 
gether all the time which could be spared from business. Of 
course, Clara was invited to join, but the invitation was so 
plainly complimentary that she invariably refused. She was 
not suspicious, but proud and sensitive, nor was she deceitful. 
There was something about Aline that she disliked excessively ; 
and though she was kind and ladylike always, she never caressed 
her or called her by the thousand diminutives which her hus- 
band so lavishly bestowed. They lived in an enduring com- 
panionship, and that was all. Now, Aline never left her room 



98 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

when Grant was absent, and Clara was almost always alone. 
A great distance had come between those who so loved each 
other — a clond which threatened to separate them completely. 

One evening, Clara was going to the library, but she paused 
at the door, shuddered, and turned away. They were sitting 
upon a tete-a-tete, Grant and Aline, and Aline' s brown curls 
were on his shoulder. Clara saw him bend hastily and kiss her, 
and the words, " Why, little one, birdie, daisy, you jealous lit- 
tle darling, you know I love you/' smote her heart like lead. 

" What was that % " asked Aline, starting guiltily at the rustle 
of Clara's dress. 

" Nothing, darling," was the answer, " only the breeze lifting 
the curtains." 

Aline nestled closer to him. " I am safe where you are," 
she said simply; and then added with an arch look, " You don't 
love your little Aline." 

The eyes, half playful, half earnest, looking up in his face, 
were perfectly irresistible. Grant stooped suddenly toward 
her ; folded his arms closer about her, and whispered hoarsely, 
" Love you, no ! I idolize you — more than life — more than 
Heaven, my idol, my idol ! " 

Her heavy lashes fell to her crimsoning cheeks, and she lay 
passively in his arms, until he said fiercely: 

" Aline Grant, will you fly with me ? Will you ? Will you 
go to-night — in an hour from now ? You must, you shall." 

And Aline said softly : 

" If you wish it, Grantie, I will." 

And the compact was sealed by sinful words and kisses. 

In sinning thus, Grant Holmes was not to blame, perhaps, 
so much for being false to his wife as for allowing a deep, 
passionate nature to hurry him on to sin. He was so entirely a 
creature of impulse that he never stopped to think of the ter- 
rible consequences that might accrue from this action. He had 
but one thought, one desire, and that was — Aline. At heart, 
Clara was still his love ; but she had grown cold and reserved ; 
and it was not to be wondered at that Grant should love the 
passionate little Lena, at least, for a time, so that he should 
yield to this impulse of the moment. 

They parted, each to make the necessary preparations for 



EAKLY PROSE WOEKS 99 

their sinful flight. Grant ran upstairs to his room, gave orders 
for the carriage to wait at a neighboring corner at midnight, 
packed his most-needed effects, and sat down to read, taking the 
hrst book that presented itself. It chanced to be a volume of 
Longfellow's poems, which his wife had given him, and on the 
fly-leaf was written: 

" Darling, your life is a poem more perfect than this, because 
God is the author — * a beautiful, perfect poem. Oh, see that you 
read it well." Grant dropped the book and fell into a dream of 
the past — of how he had loved Clara, and how she had cared for 
him — " but," he said, impatiently, " now it was different; Clara 
had no love for him; she was careless of him." Was she so? 
He glanced about the room. It was cheerful and bright. His 
dressing-gown and slippers were arranged for him; fresh flow- 
ers were under his picture ; and — ah ! he remembered now, it 
was his birthnight — on the stand by his side was a richly 
embroidered smoking-cap and a volume of poems, his wife's 
gift. Grant's eyes softened, filled, and he took the cap, rever- 
ently kissed it, and replaced it. Then he rose and went to 
his wife's room. He must see Clara once more before he 
went, and she would probably be asleep; there was little risk 
to run. He paused at the door. It was partly open; and in 
the faint star-light he could see a figure in white, and the 
faint, broken tones of a prayer reached his ears : 

" Father in Heaven, guide and guard him ; keep him from 
evil, O God, and I beseech Thee to ' hold him in the hollow of 
Thy hand.' It is I who have sinned in worshiping him. Pun- 
ish me, O God, but be merciful unto us." 

Silently, Grant glided in, knelt by that silent figure, put his 
arm about it, and said in his deep tones : 

" God, be merciful unto us, and bless us." 

For a few moments they knelt in silence after Grant's voice 
had broken the stillness ; and then, rising gently, Clara twined 
her arms about her husband, and said, placing her cheek against 
his in her touching, childlike way: 

" Thank God, for He has restored you to me." 

" Yes, darling," was the answer, " and thank you, his angel, 
who has led me from darkness into light. I will return to you 
in a moment, my wife." 



100 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Leaving a quiet, happy smile on Clara's lips, Grant went to 
the library, where, as he had promised, he found Aline awaiting 
him. She sprang forward at his entrance and clasped his arm, 
but he undid the clinging arms, and said gravely : 

" Aline, I have seen the glory of Heaven as Saul saw it, and 
I will not leave the Angel who will guide me. We must give 
this up. I do not love you as I do my wife, and this sin must 
be given up. God help us, Aline, you and me, in our great sin 
and trial." 

" And you are afraid, then/' hissed Aline, through clenched 
teeth. " That moon-faced girl upstairs has been chiding and 
scolding you, has she ? I am proud of you to be governed by a 
pauper — I am, indeed." 

The cutting irony of these words cut Grant to the quick ; and 
Aline's eyes flashed triumphantly, for he at once offered his arm, 
saying gravely: 

" The carriage is at the door; come, Aline." 

Quietly they threaded the broad halls and emerged from the 
door into the clear, calm night-air. A few steps brought them 
to the carriage. Aline's baggage was already there, and the 
driver was in his place. Grant opened the door, then paused, 
saying slowly: 

" Aline, will you not return ? This is very, very wrong. It 
is not too late yet. Come back, Aline." 

She laughed a short, scornful laugh, and said: 

" Coward ! I thought you brave enough ; do as you wish. 
Come, I could despise you if I did not love you ; but I do. Oh, 
Grant, I do love you." 

There was real feeling in the words ; and Grant grew a trifle 
paler as he unclasped the fingers which wound about his own 
so persistently ; and only God and the angels knew what it cost 
him to say : 

" Then, Aline, good-bye and God bless you. Jim will take 
you to a friend's house, where you will remain until I can make 
further provision for you." 

" What do you mean, Grant % Are you not going ? " 

" No, Aline, I am not. lly good angel has saved me ; but 
you must go, and may your good angel save you. Once more, 
good-by." 



EARLY PEOSE WOKKS 101 

The carriage drove away, despite Aline's shrill " I won't 
go ! I'll never be duped in this way ! I'll kill you all ! " And 
Grant returned quietly to his wife, listened fondly to her lov- 
ing words, and returned her loving kisses, until she fell asleep 
with a smile of happiness wreathing her lips. 

" I wonder where Aline is," said Clara the next morning at 
breakfast. 

" She has gone to Mr. Bight's," said Grant coolly slicing his 
potato. " She took a notion to go after you retired, and so I 
called the carriage for her. I did not think it necessary to wake 
you before she left." 

" Certainly not ; but Grant, dear, I dread her return. There 
is such a cloud between us when she is here." 

Grant left his place, went behind Clara, and lifting her face 
up to him, said : 

" Clara, darling, Aline will not return here to live, and there 
shall never come another cloud between us if I can help it ; so 
help me God ! " And it was almost solemnly that his lips met 
hers after the earnest words. 

Years passed on, and Grant Holmes never faltered in his 
devotion to his wife ; and she had no need of pride and reserve ; 
for she was all his world to him. 

One day a note was brought to him. It was a formal an- 
nouncement of Aline's marriage to a banker of the city, and a 
card to himself bearing the words : " Aline Grant was yours 
— Aline Lincoln is your enemy." 

This latter Grant concealed, and a few months after came 
the tidings of Aline's death. She was drowned on her wedding- 
tour, and they said her last despairing cry was : 

" Grant ! Grant ! I wish you'd forgive me ! I wish you'd 
forgive me ! " 

Clara Holman never knew that her husband was almost ship- 
wrecked ; but that he had been turned from the fierce Scylla by 
the Pilot Prayer, and from the " sinfulness of sin " to the pure- 
ness of purity by her own dear, woman's voice. 

For the New York Mercury, December 24, 1864. 



102 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 



TAKEN PRISONER 



I, Clarabell Harding, sat down and cried; I, who did not 
remember having shed a tear since I had screamed for the moon, 
and papa had refused it, for the simple anjd only reason that 
neither love nor money could buy it, now was crying, scream- 
ing, stamping, because of the result of my own waywardness of 
temper. It was the old oft-repeated story ; Charlie Kambell and 
I had quarrelled, and he, in common with all the lovers of the 
present day, had enlisted out of pure revenge, and the news had 
just reached me an hour after the regiment had left the city. 
Of course, I was frantic. How could I help being, when every 
little brown curl on his handsome head was dearer than all the 
world to me? And yet, what was to be done? I knew that 
he would not desert ; and even supposing such a thing possible, 
if he should, he'd get shot for it. I couldn't prove him under 
age, for his tall, manly frame and dark mustache laughed at 
such an idea ; nor could I hope that he would be discharged for 
disability, for a stronger, healthier, handsomer specimen of 
manhood had never gone " off to the wars." What then ? It 
was a plain case of the non-curable ; and yet I was determined 
in some way or another to cure it. All that long, weary night 
I sat alone, listening to the soft patter of the rain upon the 
window-panes, and thinking, planning, rejecting plans, until just 
as the gray morning broke, a rift in the dark clouds, my heart 
grew lighter with the certainty that I had a plan at least worthy 
of the trial. I knew that Charlie's regiment was ordered to 

Fort , and near that place I had an aunt living — a plain, 

honest woman, loving me dearly for my mother's sake — and 
whom I could trust in time of need. Accordingly, having pro- 
cured of all the " needfuls " for a visit, I closed up house, kissed 
papa an affectionate good-by, and started for a visit to Aunt 
Jane, papa declaring " that the child was getting rather pale, 
and a change of air would do her good." 

In due time I found myself comfortably domiciled in Aunt 
Jane's pleasant old homestead, and in a fair way to be spoiled 
by the immense amount of petting which I received from auntie 
and her two sons, Sam and George. Uncle Reuben I have not 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 103 

mentioned because no one else ever did. He was of so little 
consequence in the family, that I was barely conscious of his 
existence. Aunt Jane was the head of the family, and Uncle 
Eeuben had been the nurse of the small children; but since 
they had grown to years of maturity, he was very useful in 
feeding auntie's poultry. " Good at that," she asserted ; " at 
least better than anything else." As regarded politics, the 
whole family were, to use an expression more forcible than 
elegant, " on the fence " ; though I really think that at heart 
Aunt Jane was a " secesh." The boys had just returned from 
a Northern College, and very wisely kept a respectful distance 
from Jeff's auxiliaries. Upon these boys depended all my 
hopes of success, and, being a great favorite, I did not doubt 
their willingness to aid me. One day, a few weeks after I 
arrived at Aunt Jane's, I astonished that good lady by appear- 
ing before her shorn of my curls. " My goodness, Clarabell ! 
What's up now ? " she exclaimed. " Where's your hair, child ? " 
" I cut it off, auntie. " All those beautiful curls your papa was 
so proud of! I declare it's shameful! " " No, it isn't, auntie. 
Let me part them to one side — there ! Isn't that pretty ? " 
Aunt Jane's face softened a little. " Pretty, yes you are 
pretty ! You make me think of your dear mother when she 
was your age, with them little rings clustering over your head." 
I sat down at Aunt Jane's feet and put my head in her lap, 
then said, as I felt her hand caressing my forehead : 
" You loved my mother, auntie. Don't you love me ? " 
" Love you, yes ; as though you were my own daughter. 
Why, Bell, I love you every bit as much as I do Sam and 
George." 

" Then, auntie, you don't want me to be miserable, do you ? " 
" Who's going to make you miserable ? Has Sam, or George, 
or Uncle Eeub dared — " 

" No, none of them, auntie," I said, gently pushing her 
back to her seat from which she had started in her vehemence ; 
" sit still, and I'll tell you in a few words: I am engaged." 
" Humph! " ejaculated Aunt Jane, in a dubious tone. I went 
on, however : " Engaged to Charlie Kambell, or was, but we 
had a quarrel the other night, and he had to go and enlist out 
of sheer ugliness, and leave the city without seeing me. Now, 



104 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

auntie, Charlie has an old mother who needs him at home. If 
it hadn't been for her, he would have gone long ago; besides, 
it is just killing me to have him in danger every minute, and I 
must get him home again." 

" But, my dear, foolish child, there's no way of doing it, that I 
can see; and I can't see what all this had to do with your cut- 
ting off all them curls I like so much." 

" Then, I'll tell you auntie ; there's one way of getting him 
home, but it is dangerous, and I shall need you, and Sam, and 
George, to help me." 

" What's the plan, Bell ? " 

" Auntie, we must take him prisoner, parole him, and send 
him home ; and I have cut off my curls because I intend to be a 
Confederate officer, at your service." 

Auntie began to look mournful. " Poor child ! has trouble 
turned your brain ? " 

How I laughed ; then I stopped and said : " Not a bit of it, 
auntie. Just listen to my plan, and you will see. I know 
Charlie well enough to know he'll struggle. He and a comrade 
or two will go into the neighborhood in search of luxuries which 
Uncle Sam don't provide. Now, auntie, we are to put on Con- 
federate uniforms (I've a beautiful officer's suit in my trunk), 
and during one of these excursions, we can easily capture 
them." 

Auntie actually whistled, then she called the boys in, and they 
declared it was " nonsense," " foolhardiness," etc. ; but, finally, 
both Aunt Jane and the boys were won over to be willing coad- 
jutors in my plot, " solely," they said, " because if I was deter- 
mined to get killed, they wished to see it." George was sent 
out as a spy, and Sam was directed to procure suitable uniforms 
for himself, Aunt Jane, and George. The uniforms were got- 
ten, and week after week slipped by before George could learn 
anything of Charlie. Finally, however he brought in the cheer- 
ing intelligence that he had overheard one soldier tell another 
that he and Kambell were going to have a roast-goose or 
two for dinner the next day, from Granny Kentwin's place, 
unless they were all " gobbled up by that time." " So," con- 
cluded George, " Miss Harebrains, we'll don our i secesh ' 
clothes, and see if we can't ' gobble up ' a goose or two and send 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 105 

one man out of this inhuman slaughter, if we do no more 
good." 

Of course, I had too much tact to quarrel with George re- 
garding his sentiments in regard to the war-question at that 
time. On the contrary, I kissed him, called him a dear good 
cousin, and flew off to see if my uniform was complete. 

The next day — it was Sunday — rose clear and bright. The 
birds were all a-twitter on every branch; the bees kept up 
their continual hum of contentment among the flowers; and 
the pine-crowned mountains bathed their brows in all the glory 
of the spring-sunshine. It was a Sabbath kept by Nature. The 
very air seemed redolent of incense offered at the shrine of the 
Creator. It was with a light heart that I donned my uniform, 
parted my hair a la officer, stained my face to a healthy brown, 
darkened my brows by aid of burnt cork, and finally adjusted 
a dark mustache over my lips. 

" I'm afraid those girlish feet will betray you, General," 
laughed Sam; but when I cased them in boots I had no fear of 
betrayal, so completely was I metamorphosed. Aunt Jane, with 
her grizzled gray hair, made the roughest old Rebel I ever saw. 
She was tall and sinewy, and just suited for the character she 
assumed. 

Our arms were attended to carefully, lest there should be 
need of them. 

It was our intention to surprise and capture, if possible, be- 
fore our prisoners-expectant could have time to use their arms, 
for there was no probability of their venturing out unarmed in 
a country overrun by Rebels ; but if that failed, then we were 
to have recourse to arms, being careful to insure flesh-wounds 
only. 

Our horses were mounted and we started in great glee ; fol- 
lowed an unfrequented road for a mile or so, and then George 
led us off into a gorge completely filled by a growth of shrubs. 

Here we dismounted, hid our horses in the thicket, and pro- 
ceeded to Mrs. Kentwin's house. 

The old lady was alone, and being a staunch Rebel, joyfully 
admitted us, at the same time commiserating us upon our mis- 
erable garments (Sam had been compelled to get old suits), and 
offering us her choicest provisions. 



106 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

We did not refuse, lest it should awaken her suspicions, and 
she began preparing dinner for us. 

Suddenly we heard steps distinctly upon the gravel walk. 

" It's the soldiers," she whispered, quickly and quietly push- 
ing me into the other room ; " go in there, all of you ; quiet now, 
and you can nab a couple of the rogues." 

She left the door a little ajar, and returned to her work as 
a tattoo of thundering raps was beaten upon the door. 

" Who is it ? " questioned the old lady. 

" Friends ! " was the answer ; " and some confounded hungry 
ones, too. Come, mother, we won't hurt you if you let us in 
and give us some dinner." 

Every word was accompanied by a fierce shake at the door, 
which bade fair to break it from its hinges. To prevent this, 
Mother Kentwin opened it, and we heard two pairs of feet 
stamping upon the floor. 

" That's right, mother," said the same voice. " Getting din- 
ner, eh ? Glad to see it. Ain't you hungry, Kambell ? " 

" Yes," was the answer, in the well-remembered voice which 
had often made my heart leap; " I can do full justice to Moth- 
er's goose, I can assure you." 

" Come, then ; hurry up, old woman," said the first voice ; 
and, applying my eye to the crevice of the door, I saw that 
Charlie and his comrade had seated themselves upon a bench 
directly opposite the door at which I stood, and had placed their 
guns in a corner near by. 

E"o chance there for a surprise but by a sudden rush, and 
that might endanger one or more lives. 

Granny Kentwin seemed to comprehend the dilemma in 
which we were placed for she put the table in the center of 
the floor, spread it, and placed chairs for them with their backs 
to the door at which we stood. 

The soldiers seated themselves, and I could have touched 
Charlie's brown curls by reaching out my hand, so near were 
we to them. Poor fellows! They were evidently hungry. 
How they did enjoy that meal; how they laughed and sang, 
and joked, and told rich stories, until, in the midst of their 
hilarity, Sam drew me gently back ! He and George took the 
lead, and Auntie and I brought up the rear. 



EARLY PKOSE WOKKS 107 

George sprang behind Charlie's comrade, and had no diffi- 
culty in pinioning and securing his man; but Charlie heard 
the step, sprang to his feet, — upsetting the table — and fought 
so desperately that, had it not been for Auntie's strong sinewy 
arms assisting him, Sam must have been vanquished and my 
scheme a failure. As it was, however, Charlie was secured, 
deprived of his weapons, and placed on the bench beside his 
comrade. 

" Do you surrender ? " I inquired, bending my eyes sternly 
upon them. 

" You'd better have asked that before, you thief in the 
night," roared Charlie's choleric friend. " Ask a pair of bound 
men if they surrender, you murderous old owl, you." 

" Silence there," I commanded sternly. " You know what 
we do with Old Abe's minions when we want to put them out 
of the way," and I glanced menacingly at the branches of a 
nearby tree, " but you seem like good, well-meaning fellows, 
and I'll give you one chance for your lives. I can only hope that 
you'll be wise enough to accept it." 

" Name it," said Charlie — who had not spoken since his 
capture — in a low earnest tone. 

" You are both Union soldiers ? " 

"Yes," said Charlie. 

" From what state ? " 

" Regiment, Pennsylvania Volunteers." 

" Who are you ? " shouted Charlie's comrade to me. 

" An officer in the Confederate service, as you see," I returned 
loftily ; " and willing to do you a good turn, if you will only do 
me one." 

" What is our chance for life ? " asked Charlie, steadily, glanc- 
ing at his comrade. 

" This. We are sadly in want of information ; if you will im- 
part all that you can, Ave will give you freedom ; if you refuse, 
death." 

There was a moment of silence. Charlie started, and paled 
slightly. His companion did not show the least evidence of 
having heard. 

" Do you hear and accept ? " 

Then his comrade burst out like steam from an overcharged 
boiler, interspersing oaths very generously: 



108 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" Look here, you becurled, be-perfumed puppy of a chiv- 
alry — " 

Here George made a step forward to restrain him, but I com- 
manded him back and he went on : 

" I'm a rough Yankee, never owned a darned nigger in my 
life, and I reckon, savin' the fact, that I've been as bad as most 
men ; but I never was so confounded sneakin' as to lie to my 
mother, or peach on the old flag. If you want this old carcass 
you can jest take it, fur I'll never save it on them terms." 

" Nor I," answered Charlie, firmly ; " are there no other 
terms ? " 

" None." 

" Then Jim," turning to his fellow-prisoner, " we shall have 
to say good-by. If ever by any chance you get home, tell 
mother that I died true, and I'll say the same for you if I am 
spared." 

" General," suggested Sam, respectfully touching his cap to 
me, " these seem like honest fellows ; it's likely they'd keep an 
oath if 'twas to save their lives, and we've got that other job on 
hand to-night. Hang it, I don't like to string up two unarmed 
men. I can fight them in a hand-to-hand battle, but I don't 
like this work. Let's parole them ? " 

" What do you say, comrades ? " I asked, turning to George 
and Aunt. 

" String them up, root and branch," said the latter, in a 
voice so gruff that it came near upsetting my assumed gravity. 
" There will be plenty there to knock the Confederacy into a 
cocked hat ! " 

" That's a fact," emphasized Charlie's friend again. " For 
once you told the truth ; and for every drop of blood you spill, 
they'll take a thousand murdering traitors, that you are." 

" Hush ! " said Charlie, in a low tone ; " be quiet Jim, you 
sign your own death- warrant by that kind of talk." 

"Well, I can't help it," but he added in a softer tone: 
" Looky here you old (I mean Mister) Secesh, this chap here 
has an old mother to home and no one but him to support her ; 
and I've a sweetheart that I don't 'zactly like to leave on such 
short notice, so that if you'll give us our parole we'll take it 
and keep it ; or if you'll let one off if 'tother dies, why take me, 



EARLY PKOSE WOEKS 109 

coz my girl can find some one else to take care of her, but his 
mother will never find another son." 

Charlie turned a grateful glance toward the noble-hearted fel- 
low, but said firmly: 

" I will not allow that." 

" Come, General, time goes ; let's parole them," suggested 
George, and I yielded. Judge of my surprise when Charlie 
refused to take the oath ; but on being assured that it was that 
or death ; at the solicitations of Jim, he yielded. 

The parole was made out (Sam had secured blanks from a 
Confederate officer whom I suspect was a friend of Aunt Jane's), 
a solemn oath was administered, both were deprived of their 
arms, released, and advised to go home. They thanked us for 
our leniency, Jim remarking by way of compliment: 

" That the Rebs were a sight better'n he thought ; but he 
couldn't make out what the deuce they wanted to split the Union 
for." 

After we thanked Mother K., who was highly indignant be- 
cause we had not hung them, we waited until our prisoners were 
out of sight, then found our horses and started for home. When 
once under shelter of Aunt Jane's friendly roof, how we laughed 
and shouted, and how happy I was! 

The following day, I went home and dispatched a letter to 
Charlie from there, begging him to return. He returned a 
joyful answer, saying that he had been released on parole and 
could come home. He did, the dear fellow, and is here yet. 
Charlie does not know to this day how he was taken prisoner, 
and I dare not tell him, lest his fine sense of honor would force 
him to return to the Army. So it is my own little pet secret ; 
and if he ever goes back to the war again, I'll don the Secesh 
garments and, aided by Aunt Jane, George, and Sam, again 
take him prisoner. 

Saturday, Jan. 14, 1865. 

For the New York Mercury. 



110 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 



WHAT'S IN A VOICE 

" He expressed a wish that he had a daughter to bestow upon my 
bachelorship. ' Thank you, Sir, I heartily wish you had,' I replied." 

The passage was nothing, but as the book fell from my hand, 
I let it lie, and sank into deep thought ; and this was the form 
my thoughts assumed: Don't they all wish so, every bachelor 
of them ? Did ever a man live who did not in his soul find that 
wish nestling warm and snug, like <the bird's nest in the crevice 
of a rock, be his heart ever so hard and stern ? I don't believe 
it. 

Cigars are fine things ; wines, excellent ; clubs, of course, di- 
vine; freedom, life: but on a rainy night, when the chimney 
will smoke, and the bachelor has smoked until he begins to 
feel related to the chimney, and can't for the life of him smoke 
another cigar; when Tom has gone off with the evening-paper, 
and the poor bachelor's head aches so he don't want wine, and he 
can't go to the " club " because of the rain : would he give a 
fig for his freedom ? Eh ? 

Nay, I'm quite sure he'd give two figs to get rid of it. He 
can't help thinking such thoughts as these : " Confound the 
rain ! Plague that Tom ! Why can't the fellow buy his own 
papers ? What a muss and tumble this room is in ; my head 
aches, and I wish some one would bathe it," and then from the 
soft garish daylight of reality, down into the soft, hazy twilight 
of memory, he glides almost imperceptibly to the time when 
the rainy evenings and aching heads were made happy by sweet 
voices and velvet palms; and he can feel again the caressing 
fingers wandering over his brow and tangling themselves softly 
in his curly hair, as only a mother's hand can; and he can 
hear again the pleasant flattery : " You have beautiful hair, my 
son. It is like your father's " ; and can feel the warm kisses 
and see the bright smile that was ever a beacon-light guiding 
him from great dangers to the " Narrow way." Then cigars, 
wines, clubs, freedom, were never dreamed of. He did not need 
them. Nay, he thought he was free, poor ignorant boy! 

But all this is gone; gone the velvet palms, the soft kisses, 
and sweet smiles ; gone all : his good embodied in one being — 



EARLY PEOSE WOEKS 111 

his mother. But he knows she has only gone " up a little 
higher/' though he never could imagine her " a little lower than 
the angels," and he is fain to be content. 

I think all of this passed 'through my friend Harry Lush's 
mind, as he sat in his room on that chill November evening, and 
the longing filled his heart for a sweet, womanly presence to 
come to him. He wanted no glitter, no glare, but a soft pearl, 
a pure opal ; no woman of fashion, no woman of mere outward 
beauty, but a true, womanly woman, as God first made her, as He 
has made many since; and I really think if such a one had 
entered those apartments at that hour, she would have been 
chosen, and Harry Lush answered in the words of the quotation : 
" Thank you, Sir." 

But no such one came, nor indeed any, excepting Bridget, 
" To see if the ghentleman would be afther wantin' any washin' 
done " ; and the rain beat against the window monotonously un- 
til, in sheer desperation, Harry got up, pulled on his heavy boots, 
put on his oilcloth coat and cap, took his great umbrella, and 
went out to brave the storm, urged by nothing but a desire for 
motion and of chasing away ennui. 

On he went through street after street, as though walking for 
a wager until, in turning a corner suddenly, he became aware 
that there was some slight impediment. 

" Hello, there," he shouted, and well he might, for he had 
come into collision with a lady, and sent her delicate umbrella 
flying into the gutter. 

" Beg your pardon, Ma'am ; I'll get it in a moment," he said, 
courteously giving her his own, and starting after hers ; but at 
that moment a naughty wind seized it and bore it onward, roll- 
ing and tumbling but still going further away, and Hal after 
it, mentally not blessing all umbrellas in general, and this one 
in particular. Finally, it was stayed by a friendly gaspost at the 
corner. Now, considering that the umbrella had not " picked 
its way " at all, but had gone floating and floundering through 
the muddy waters of the gutter, managing to break a bone or two 
every turn it made, when Hal picked it up, it was not in the best 
condition possible ; and it must be confessed, the gentleman bore 
it to its owner, holding it by the extreme tips of his gloves. 

" I'm sorry you took the trouble," said the lady, in a clear 



112 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

pleasant voice that Hal liked. It wasn't silvery, nor soft, nor 
sweet, nor particularly low, but clear, honest, earnest, as though 
the owner of it had a soul as clear, and honest, and earnest, 
as her voice. 

" Not a particle of trouble," said Hal ; " but," he added, com- 
posedly, " I fancy, Madam, you will find the rain less muddy 
before it comes in contact with this article," tapping the offend- 
ing umbrella ; " and as it is much broken, I propose leaving it 
here and using mine." 

She laughed slightly, and said, " Oh, I couldn't think of it ; 
I've already trespassed too much upon your time ; and, besides, 
what would you do ? " 

Hal was always cool in an emergency, and he answered by put- 
ting the lady's broken umbrella on the sidewalk, and attempt- 
ing to use his own ; but she said, suddenly, and rather as though 
the words were choked from unwilling lips. " I can't leave it 
though, as you say, it is broken, for we need it at home." 

" Just as well carry it," returned Hal, philosophically, raising 
it, folding and placing it under his arm, saying, " it is too much 
injured to be of use ; I will see you home, if you will permit." 

The lady did not hesitate a moment. She trusted to the 
voice entirely, for the light was too far from them to distinguish 
thereby. She took the proffered arm and said, laughing a little : 
" Certainly, but how do you expect to carry this umbrella with 
the other one under your arm ? " 

" I don't expect to," said Hal, laughing. " I'll give it to you 
for a cane. The handle is clean." 

" Now, will you take me to St. Ann street % I know the 
way," she added, a little suspiciously. 

" Glad you do," said Hal ; " for I don't. I place myself 
under your guidance." 

" Thank you." 

After that, they relapsed into silence — this strange couple, 
trusting so perfectly in each other's voices. Both were oc- 
cupied in their own thoughts — the one of the strangeness of 
her position, the other of the lady by his side ; " for a lady she 
surely was," said Hal, mentally. 

He wondered how she looked; and once, when they passed 
under the light, he hoped for a gratification of his curiosity; 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 113 

but she turned suddenly to adjust her dress, and the golden 
opportunity was lost. 

" I should not have gone out to-night/' said the lady, break- 
ing the silence ; " but my friend is sick, and I promised to sit 
with her. I could not get started from home sooner. Are you 
not going too far out of your way, Sir ? " 

" Not out of my way at all," Hal responded — adding, " I 
have no way but my own. I am i monarch of all I survey.' " 

" Which is precious little at present," laughed the lady, peer- 
ing forward into the darkness. 

After this break, the conversation passed to indifferent topics ; 
and Hal was sorry to hear his companion say : 

" Here we are, Sir. I am very much obliged to you, and am 
very sorry to have troubled you." 

She gave him her hand, which he felt was small and soft, 
though gloved, listened to his protestations that it was no trou- 
ble, and he was happy to have met her, then ran up a pair of 
steps, opened the door, and went in. 

Cold and rainy as it was, Hal looked at the house — only a 
two story frame. There were four or five just like it within a 
stone's throw. Hal had forgotten or had not heard the direction 
the lady had given ; and now he was in a quandary. 

" How the deuce am I to get home ! " he ejaculated, half 
angrily. " I'm in a pretty fix now, I should say." 

As a matter of course, it had never entered his head to go 
up the steps the lady had ascended, ring, and ask her the way ; 
so he wandered up one street and down another — up and down, 
until finally the brilliantly-lighted windows of a theatre sud- 
denly appeared before him. 

" The theatre ! good ! Now ' Eichard's himself again,' " ex- 
claimed Hal. " Now I'm home " — mentally he meant, of 
course ; for, physically speaking, his home was the matter of half 
a dozen squares from the theatre. 

Sturdily threading the streets, he reached his own boarding- 
house, was admitted, rushed up to his room, stirred the fire 
vigorously, changed his clothes and finally, at eleven o'clock, 
found himself comfortable in dressing-gown and slippers, cigar 
in mouth, and feet, according to the detestable American habit, 
on the mantel. 



114: THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

So lie sat for a few minutes thinking ; and then he took his 
cigar out from his mouth and laughed, got up, and examined 
his pockets — mentally wondering if she were not examining 
her pockets to see if she had not been robbed. Nothing was 
missing, and he resumed his seat, saying : 

" George ! I wanted to see that girl's face." 

The next morning, when Harry put away his umbrella, he 
found a small earring caught in one of the pendants. It had 
not been fastened in the ear, and had been drawn out by catch- 
ing in the silk. 

He remembered the umbrella catching in her hair. The ring 
was rare and tasteful — a small diamond set in the cloudy 
glory of opals. Of the latter stones there were eight of peculiar 
brilliancy. Hal examined the jewel, then wrote a neat de- 
scription of it and inserted it in the columns of the Advertiser. 

Day by day wore on, lessening Harry's remembrance of his 
encounter in the rain. Once, in the hope of finding the street, 
he had gone out searching, but vainly; and now, that spring- 
sunshine had taken the place of fall rains, he had lost interest in 
the affair. 

No one had called to claim the ring, and it was lying in the 
drawer. 

One day in June, Hal was preparing to call on a friend, when 
he observed the jewel. 

" I'll marry the girl who had taste enough to select that," he 
thought, half smiling, at the absurdity of it. And that voice! 
What a voice she had! — clear, ringing, decided. That girl is 
my wife." 

Hal made several calls. The last one was at the house of 
one of his " old flames," Ella Reeves — a blue-eyed, light-haired 
little thing, as innocent as a kitten, and just as sensible. She 
had a sister, Minna — tall, dark, and stately. Hal didn't like 
Minna, and was glad to hear Ella say she was deeply engaged 
in the other room. Just at that moment, a voice came to them, 
rather angrily: 

" Not finished ? My gracious ! What a way you have of 
idling your time ! What's the matter ? " 

Then a pause; and Minna's voice again broke the silence. 

" How ridiculous ! Not well ? Look at your cheeks ! they're 



EAKLY PEOSE WOKKS 115 

as red as roses. Your class are almost always sick, to believe 
your story.' 7 

Then he heard another voice — the clear, ringing, decided 
voice that he knew so well — not at all the meek accents usual 
to seamstresses. 

" Miss Reeves," it said, " I believe that I remarked that I 
was not well — I do not allow my assertions to be disbelieved." 

Ella laughed a little, held up her pretty finger, and said : 

" Be quiet. Minna is blowing up her girl. Let's hear the 
rest of it." 

" Agreed," laughed Harry ; for, with a sudden thrill, came 
the recognition of the voice of the lady whom he had once 
protected in the rain, and he was anxious to hear how she would 
endure the trying fault-finding of her haughty mistress. 

Minna's voice again reached him, full of indignant surprise : 

" Really ! You don't ! You have quite a temper ; but you 
should not get into passions. Your class cannot afford such 
luxuries. If I see or hear any more of this, I shall dismiss you 
immediately. Do you understand me ? " 

" Certainly," responded a voice, as stinging and as haughty as 
her own. " You are never difficult to understand. I demand 
from you the most implicit confidence in my word, and I must 
have it. As to my class, as you are pleased to term it, allow me 
to assure you it is far above your own : as I never had a friend 
so far forget her position as to tyrannize over one she con- 
sidered her inferior. I wish you a very good morning." 

" Oh, Regina, you've such a temper ; don't go, I must have 
that dress finished. I'll give you double if you'll stay ! Don't 
you see to-morrow is the party, and I must have the dress ! " 

" Don't let me listen," said Ella, at last dimly conscious that 
playing the eavesdropper was not entirely favorable to her sister ; 
but Harry smiled, lifted his finger to her, quietly and exclaimed : 

" Bravo." 

Of course, Ella understood the exclamation as applying to her 
sister, and was satisfied. 

Again the voice was heard : 

" No, Miss Reeves, I cannot stay ; though, of course, double 
pay would be an inducement to forget an insult." 

How bitter the tone was. 



116 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" God made me your equal. You shall not make me your 
inferior." The clear tones ceased, and the door softly closed. 

Hal knew she had gone out. Hastily rising, he said : 

" I must go now, Miss Ella, I'll be in again this week. Until 
then, good-by." 

And she, with some little playful scoldings on her part, al- 
lowed him to leave. 

!N~o sooner had the door closed on him, than he looked for 
the Regina who had so interested him. A figure robed in 
black was before him, and this he followed ; for he thought the 
graceful, stately carriage well corresponding to the voice, but 
before he could overtake her, she had entered a small house, 
and disappeared. 

This time, Harry did not forget the street and number, but 
took it down lightly. Pine St., No. 56, and then went home. 

The following afternoon, Harry Lush took the jewel, and his 
way to Pine Street. He reached the house^ and then hesi- 
tated. What was her name ? Regina he knew, but what more ? 

" Who lives here % " he inquired of a ragged urchin, perched 
upon a tree nearby. 

" Miss 'Ginie," responded the boy carelessly. . 

" Who's Miss 'Ginie ? ' asked Hal, impatiently. 

" Why, I reckon she's Miss 'Ginie," returned the boy, grin- 
ning. " Least-wise, I never heard as she wasn't." 

Hal saw there was no use in appearing angry at the provok- 
ing little rogue, so he asked quietly : 

" What's her last name? " 

" You're a brick ! Hang on like a leech ! Like to know, 
wouldn't ye ? " 

" Certainly," said Hal, " or I shouldn't have asked you." 

" I reckoned so," was the cool response, accompanied by three 
cheers, and a tiger. 

" Boy," said Harry, laughing in spite of himself, and show- 
ing him a piece of silver (reader, this happened before silver 
had become merely a memory), " give me a correct answer, and 
I'll give you this." 

« Will — eh ? What if I don't want it ? " 

" Then you can do without it," said Hal, coolly preparing 
to pocket the piece, and lifting the knocker on the door. 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 117 

" Wait, then ! I'll tell you for the piece ! " screamed the 
lad, scrambling down from his exalted position, and advancing 
to Hal ; but he had trifled too long. 

Hal turned to him with a stern " Be off with you, Sir " which 
he dared not disobey; but his obedience was characteristic of 
himself. He receded a few steps, stopped, looked at Hal, and 
then said in a tone of intense admiration : 

" Well, you're a brick, Sir — a reg'lar brick — and fit to be 
a ragamuffin. Lud ! how I was sold ! " 

Then with a hop, skip, and jump, he vanished. 

The tap of the old-fashioned knocker was answered by the 
appearance of an elderly lady, in her heavy satin and soft laces. 
Singularly out of place she looked, Hal thought, in that little 
low house. 

" Is Miss Eegina in ? " asked Hal, using the only name he 
knew. 

" I suppose you mean Miss Eawdon ? " said the elderly lady 
inquiringly. " Yes, she is in — come in." 

Hal entered a perfect bijou of a parlor, soft velvet carpets, and 
heavy curtains, rare pictures and ornaments, heavy crimson- 
tassels and reception-chairs. He was astonished. 

" I will send Miss Eawdon to you, Sir." 

And the lady passed gracefully through the door. A moment 
passed, and a young lady entered. She was tall, finely formed, 
with large dark eyes, full red lips, and dark rich braids of hair 
framed in the face. She wore mourning, and in one ear Hal 
recognized the mate to the ring which he himself held. 

" Just the girl for the name," thought Hal. 

She advanced to him gracefully, but wearily, and with an 
indifferent air that said as plainly as the words could say, " I 
am weary " ; and a red spot on either cheek did not belie the 
manner. He rose. 

" Miss Eawdon does not remember me," he said, in his softly 
modulated tones. 

At the sound of the voice, the lady's eyes lighted up, and she 
smiled recognition. 

" The voice, not the name," she said. " I cannot but remem- 
ber the voice of the gentleman who took me home in the rain, 
and wanted me to leave my umbrella on the sidewalk," was 



118 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

added, with a dash of laughter in eyes and lip. The ice was 
broken, and Hal said: 

" True enough, I had forgotten that extravagance ; but I must 
tell you my errand. I came to restore a trinket that my awk- 
ward umbrella carried off that night. I advertised, but no 
one came to claim the jewel, so I was obliged to find the owner 
myself." 

Miss Rawdon received the jewel with a bright face, and 
" I thank you so much, Sir ; they were a gift from my father 
before his death, and it pained me to lose one of them; not 
exactly the jewels," she added with a curve of her proud lip, 
for a sewing girl to indulge in, " but I promised papa I would 
always wear them. I am twice your debtor, Mr. Lush." 

" I shall try and keep you so," was the smiling return. " I 
am very fond of having debts to collect." 

Just then Mrs. Rawdon appeared. 

" Mama," said Regina, " Mr. Lush, whose card you gave 
me a few moments ago. He called to restore my earring which, 
you remember, I lost on that rainy night." 

" Ah, Mr. Lush, I am glad to see you, Sir. The time was 
when we should not have cared for that trifle; but times are 
changed. Still, Regina is a good child, and will not allow her 
mother to do without the old comforts, though she hasn't these 
things in her own room at all ; but she never was 6 a born lady/ 
to use a common term, for I often tell her she cannot appreciate 
beautiful and refined surroundings as I can." 

Regina's eyes lightened a moment, then softened to moist- 
ness at the palpable selfishness of this remark. Hal took his 
leave, saying lightly : 

" I must see that you do not lose that earring again, Miss 
Rawdon, and, therefore, shall have to watch you." 

A week after Hal called again. 

" Miss R.," her mother said, " was sick. Regina was a 
good child, but it made her nervous to sit by her and wait upon 
her, and Regina was too stubborn to permit a servant to be 
hired." 

Hal understood the " stubbornness " perfectly well, but did 
not say so. The lady went on : 

" Regina was her step-child, but she had been at a great deal 



EAELY PEOSE WOKKS 119 

of expense to have her educated ; therefore, it was but right that 
she should be of use to her now. After her father's death, 
Eegina tried to get a school, but failed, and had to descend to 
dress-making. It was a good thing that Eegina was not so 
relined as to miss the laces, and silks, and jewels she was wont 
to have, as she (Mrs. Eawdon) should do if she were to be de- 
prived of them. As for the parlor-furniture, that belonged to 
her, and the creditors could not touch it." 

Tired of this selfish harangue, Hal took his leave. 

For weeks, Hal went daily to the little wooden house ; and 
daily was Eegina gladdened by an offering of flowers or rare 
prints, and sometimes a little scrap of a note, hoping that she 
was better, and signed " Hal." After that, she became con- 
valescent ; and he still called daily. 

" I must go to work, to-morrow," she said, one evening, half 
sadly, when he was sitting by her. 

" To-morrow ! why you're not able yet." 

" Yes, I am j I must go, for I've an engagement ; and mama 
is complaining bitterly that her oranges are out." 

" Mama be — " 

He stopped suddenly and then said : 

" Well, but, Miss Eegina, suppose that I should countermand 
that engagement as a physician ? " 

A soft crimson stole up even to the white brow, and she drew 
her breath a little shorter, but answered lightly: 

" Then I shouldn't obey you, Sir. You are not a physician, 
you know." 

"I am in this case, and I do countermand it ; but, lest you 
should regret the loss of the engagement, I offer you another in 
its place — Eegina, my queen, my darling, will you accept this 
one?" 

Hal bent over her chair-arm eagerly ; and she, thrilling with 
deep joy, turned her head from him, but he took the face in 
both hands, and lifting it to him, gazed for a moment at the 
quivering mouth and harried eyes, then kissed her lips not 
lightly, but tenderly ; linger ingly, as though he would draw her 
soul through the crimson portals. 

And thus they were betrothed; drawn together by the mere 
affinity of voice; and years after, when Eegina's raven braids 



120 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

were threaded by silver, and Harry's firm step was faltering 
a little, he used to pass his hand adown her soft hair, and say 
laughingly, but tenderly: 

" Ah ! Regie, if it hadn't been for your voice, I should have 
been an old bachelor <to this day. Just think what you saved me 
from; and you would have been an old maid soon, and cross, 
Regie." 

" And," Eegina would return, " Harry, if it hadn't been for 
your voice, you'd never have gotten the treasure you did " — 
with an arch smile — " I'm not sure if you should lose your 
voice now, but I should desert you, and follow it." 

And that's what's in a voice. 

Saturday, February 11, 1865. 
For the New York Mercury, 



POOR MAGGIE McLAIJST 

I will tell you now an " ower true tale," though it must needs 
be a sad one ; for I have just seen a pale, deathly face, singularly 
devoid of expression, pressed up against my window, heard a 
tapping on the pane, as the face vanishes; and this face, this 
tapping, this laughter have recalled to my mind what I shall tell 
you. 

Maggie McLain was the only daughter of Puritanical parents, 
and had been carefully reared in one of the New England vil- 
lages, held in by all their forms of stern religion, taught that 
sin was most fearful and most to be abhorred ; and, as a conse- 
quence of such an education, at the age of eighteen was as pure 
and as innocent as she had been at the age of three. Her pure 
mind could not understand crime. It was too fearfully appall- 
ing for contemplation. She was a fair, gentle girl, " thinking 
no evil," and shadowing all sins in others under her broad, sweet 
mantle of charity. About this time her mother died, and Mag- 
gie was installed house-keeper for her father. She was at once 
all happiness and misery, for, stern Puritan as he was, he feared 
that to him she was an idol, and strove jealously to love her less. 
Then, too, the constant fear that his dove might mate with a 
hawk was omnipresent. This fear was in a measure enhanced 



EARLY PKOSE WOEKS 121 

when William Swaranger (or as Maggie called him, Willie) 
first became a frequent visitor at the house. He had been a 
stranger in the village one year before; and, though not one 
knew anything particularly bad about him, certainly it was a 
noticeable fact no one ever spoke good. He was brave and 
handsome, dressed elegantly, drove the first teams in the coun- 
try, and attended all places of amusements, yet was in no par- 
ticular business to warrant such heavy expenses. It had been 
whispered that he gambled ; but, when the report was mentioned 
to him, he laughed his free, hearty laugh, declaring, on his 
honor, that he could not tell one card from another, and the 
rumor was set down as false. This Will Swaranger saw Silas 
McLain's one ewe lamb, and coveted it. He was not a man to 
covet anything very long without making an effort to obtain 
it, and, accordingly, he at once became a very devoted and fre- 
quent escort of Maggie's, loving her in his better nature, and 
guarding that love jealously. After all, that was Mr. McLain's 
one greatest objection to him. And when an officious neighbor 
informed him that they were betrothed, utterly unbelieving as he 
was, he determined to end the friendship at once. 

" Maggie," he said, " Will Swaranger told me to tell you 
he'd be around to-night." 

A scarlet flush stole over the white cheeks of Maggie, like the 
faintest flush of sunset on snow ; but she only said : 

" Very well, father." 

Mr. McLain glanced keenly at her, and he noted the tell-tale 
flush upon her face. 

" No, it is not very well," he returned ; " I don't like Swar- 
anger, and you know I don't; next thing you'll be wanting to 
marry him, and I'd see you in your grave sooner. There, girl, 
don't cry ; there's no danger of that I s'pose ; only to-night, when 
Will Swaranger comes, you just tell him that I don't want to 
see him here again, or anywhere else with you." 

" But, father," began Maggie, pleadingly. 

Mr. McLain's brows darkened. 

" But, father, nothing ; I tell you it shall be as I say. Do 
you mean to be disobedient ? " 

"No, father, but—" 

" Well, then, see that you are not." And to cut the matter 



122 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

short, he quitted the room, leaving poor Maggie almost heart- 
broken ; for with all the deep tenderness of a woman's heart she 
loved William Swaranger. 

Taught control, it was very few tears she shed before seeing 
Will in the evening ; and with the hopefulness of youth, she felt 
certain that Willie's superior wisdom must find some way of 
escape. He came, handsome, fascinating, affectionate, and 
self-possessed as usual, offering his hand to Mr. McLain, which 
that gentleman scarcely touched, then to Maggie. As for Mr. 
McLain, he grasped his hat, pushed his head into it, and left 
the house. 

Maggie and Will were alone, and the former was sorrowfully 
doing her father's bidding, when there was a rat-tat-tat at the 
door from brawny knuckles, the latch lifted, and farmer Phillips 
ushered himself in. He was a neighbor, who resided two miles 
from the village. 

" How d'ye do, Miss Maggie, blooming as ever, in a quiet 
way ? " he asked, cordially pressing her hand. " And — ah, Mr. 
Swaranger ! you here ; how d'ye flourish this warm weather ? " 
taking out a red bandanna to wipe the perspiration from his brow. 

" Maggie, child, can't you get us a drink ? " 

Maggie gave him a glass, and after quaffing its contents and 
returning it to her, he said, in his trusting, cordial way : " Mag- 
gie, child, I thought I'd just drop in a moment and let you 
know of my good fortune — father's out, ain't he ? " 

" Just gone this moment, Mr. Phillips." 

" Well, I don't know as it's much difference ; you can tell 
him as well as not, Maggie, I've sold the old Smith farm at 
last, and have the one thousand dollars in gold with me," let- 
ting his voice sink to a whisper, and not observing Swaranger, 
who had moved closer to him, " I shall keep it home to-night, and 
I want you to tell your father to come over early in the morn- 
ing, and we'll decide what's best to do with it. Come, Maggie, 
child, congratulate me, and you, too, Swaranger." 

" I do most heartily, Sir," said the latter, in his soft tones, of- 
fering his hand, which the latter shook heartily. 

Maggie only said : " I'm very glad for you, Mr. Phillips." 

But eyes and lips encored it, and the farmer pinched her 
cheeks, declaring she was a " dear Puss." 



EAKLY PKOSE WORKS 123 

" Miss Maggie, I have an engagement, and must go," said 
Swaranger, rising. 

" G-ood evening, Mr. Phillips." 

Maggie accompanied him to the door. 

" I'll surely see you to-morrow, trust me," he said earnestly ; 
then stooped and kissed her, saying, with unusual feeling: 
" Whatever becomes of me, Maggie, may the holy Virgin guard 
you, child, and keep you always pure." 

And that prayer has been answered. It was with a light 
heart that Maggie returned to Mr. Phillips, for had not Willie 
said that they should meet again to-morrow ? and her trust was 
implicit. 

Soon her father came in, and a couple of hours passed in 
discussion of how to dispose of the gold ; and the question was 
still undecided when Mr. Phillips rose to go. 

" I declare," said he, laughing in his jolly way, " so much 
riches make a coward of me; I'm afraid to go that lonesome 
road again to-night. McLain, you couldn't spare me Maggie, 
could you ? " 

" Certainly, she can go, and I too," was the answer. 

" Oh, dear, no ; I don't want you, man. Why, I'd never get 
home at that rate, you'd be for shooting at every shadow on the 
road. I've got my ' colonel ' here, you see, and he'll take care of 
Maggie and me too (Mr. Phillip's i colonel ' was a very fine re- 
volver). Come my girl, bundle up." 

Always gentle and acquiescent, Maggie donned bonnet and 
shawl, said good night to her father, and started for the wagon 
in waiting, but, returning slowly, said: 

" Won't you kiss me good night, father ? " 

Surprised at the request, so unusual of Maggie, McLain yet 
stooped, kissed her and said softly, very tenderly for him : 

" Good-night, my child," and she was gone. 

It was a very dark night, and once out from the village the 
road wound through a thick, dark wood for quite a distance, 
but, perfectly acquainted with it, Mr. Phillips felt no fears. 

Gayly chatting to Maggie, and occasionally bursting into 
snatches of cheerful songs, he drove on. 

Maggie, weighed down by the overshadowing of some fearful 
calamity, she knew not what, scarcely answered his sallies of 



124 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

wit by monosyllables ; and he, seeing that she inclined to silence, 
let her alone. 

Too dark to distinguish objects at the slightest distance, the 
first intimation Farmer Phillips had of others being on the 
road beside himself was a sharp crackling of the fallen leaves 
and twigs, the rearing suddenly of his horse, as it was grasped 
by the bit and stopped, and a deep voice saying: 

" Your money, or you're a dead man." 

Maggie cowered down in the seat; and he, not forgetting 
her, even in that moment, put his arm about her, and drew her 
very close to him. 

" Who are you," he demanded, undaunted, u who dare ask an 
honest man for his money % " 

" That matters not," was the answer. " Will you give it ? " 

«;no!" 

" Then die." 

And a pistol was raised, a bullet whizzed past his head, so 
close that he felt the air in its wake. 

A moment more, and the ( colonel ' was on duty. With a 
cool : 

" It's a revolver, Sir." 

Mr. Phillips aimed, fired ; and the highwayman who had shot 
at him, with only a groan, was stretched lifeless in the road. 

There had been but two ; and the second one, occupied in hold- 
ing the horse, seemed to have taken no active part in the crime, 
and now left his charge, broke through the bushes, and fled. 

Then Parmer Phillips said to Maggie, drawing her closer, as 
he would a little child. 

" There, my girl, don't be afraid, I don't think there's any 
more of them, but I'll just load up the ' colonel ' again anyhow, 
and then see to that fellow in the road, though it ain't often I 
miss aim when I try to hit. I hope he ain't dead, for I don't 
want the sin of murder on my soul, if he did try to kill me." 

Working diligently all this time in the darkness, the weapon 
was reloaded, and the farmer sprang out from the wagon and 
advanced to the prostrate form. 

" Maggie," he called out, " feel in that little box by your side 
there, and bring me some matches, will you? It's lucky I 
brought them, as it's confounded dark here. Hurry up, Maggie, 



EAELY PKOSE WORKS 125 

there may be life in this fellow though it ain't very likely, since 
the ' colonel ' had a pick at him." 

Trembling in every nerve, Maggie grasped the box of matches, 
climbed down from the wagon, and went to Farmer Phillips, 
guided by the voice, for she could scarce see him. She gave 
them to his outstretched palm, and he retained her hand a 
moment, saying: 

" Why, what's the matter, my girl ; don't be frightened. The 
' colonel ' is good for half a dozen fellows like that yet. Your 
hands are like ice ; cheer up,, child ! " 

He released her hand, and struck a match on his boot. 

" There," he ejaculated, " that's lit. Why, bless me, if this 
chap isn't done up in crape. Tear it off his face, Maggie. I'm 
afeared he's gone to his last account, poor sinner ! " 

The farmer lighted a dry twig from the match he held, and 
at it blazed up brilliantly, Maggie's trembling fingers tore off 
the heavy mask of crape and revealed the death-cold features of 
— Will Swaranger. 

Bending lower, with lips apart and eyes horror-frozen, she ex- 
amined and reexamined every feature of that handsome face, as 
Farmer Phillips exclaimed: 

" By Heavens, Maggie, I do believe it's Bill Swaranger ! " 

She broke into a little trill of laughter, which was more fright- 
ful than anything that had happened during that eventful night, 
and fell to kissing the cold face, and patting the white forehead, 
cooing softly: 

" Willie, dear Willie, don't you see Maggie ? " laughing oc- 
casionally and pressing her hands. 

The farmer looked at her a moment, and exclaimed : 

" Maggie, Maggie ! What's come over you, my poor child ? 
Why, he was at your house to-night " — thinking a moment, and 
then he said slowly : 

" Ah, I see ; poor shorn lamb ! Heaven help her now. 
Blamed rascal ! " 

Mother's voice was not more tender than the rough man as 
he said, stroking her hair softly : 

" Come, my child ; we'll go home now. Come, my girl, Mag- 
gie. What ! Must have him, too ? Then we'll take him along. 
See if you can't carry his head, Maggie." 



126 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

That much she understood, raised him gently, and the light, 
athletic form was soon placed in the bed of the wagon, the 
bleeding staunched by the farmer's red bandanna. 

Maggie sat down by it, laughing and cooing, and the farmer 
took the reins ; so that sad, sad group went home, the farmer, 
never giving a thought to his money, which, however, was not the 
less safe. 

Once at the farmhouse door, Mrs. Phillips bustled out, over- 
flowing with her motherly hospitality, to welcome her pet Mag- 
gie, and not heeding the farmer's " Softly, mother, softly ! " 
reached out her arms to embrace the girl, but Maggie, pushing 
her away, screamed: 

" Go away ; he did no murder. Willie is here ; go way, I 
say. Willie, dear, Maggie is here with you." 

Mrs. Phillips shrank back with: 

" Why, father, what is the matter with the girl ? " and " Oh, 
Nathan, who is this poor bleeding creature in the wagon ? " as 
Sam, the boy, appeared on the scene, holding a lantern. 

" Do tell me. What am I to do with Maggie, and what ails 
her ? It's all a mystery to me. Do speak, father, quick." 

" Can't now, mother. Help me to get this body out, and yon 
poor dove will follow then. Come, mother; don't stop. Yes, 
I'm afeared he's gone to his last account. 

" Sammy," to the boy, " hold that light a little higher. Now, 
mother; one lift — that's right," and the poor bleeding body 
was borne into the house, Maggie following of her own accord, 
and seating herself by the corpse when it was laid upon the 
bed. 

" No use looking, mother," said the farmer, as his wife was 
feeling for the heart. " He's dead, but I couldn't help it. The 
colonel shot truer than I wanted him to that time. You see, 
mother, as we was comin' home through that strip of woods, 
Maggie and I, we was attacked by two fellows, who wanted my 
money. I told you that I got the thousand, and stopped in 
and told Maggie, and Swaranger was there, didn't I ? Well, 
I refused, and one of them shot at me — there's the hole in my 
hat, now — so I raised the colonel, and there that one lies," 
pointing to the bed. " T'other one took to his heels or I'd a 
peppered him some, too, mother." Lowering his voice, " This 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 127 

one is S war anger, Maggie's betrothed, and when she saw his 
face there in the road it was too much for her, poor lamb! 
How quiet she sits there! Nay, let her alone. The good 
Lord'll comfort her more than you or I can. I dread to see her 
father in the morning, for she's the apple of his eye, and well 
she might be, poor thing ! " 

Mrs. Phillips' great motherly heart was full, and, burying her 
face in her apron, she broke into a real woman's cry, the great 
sobs shaking her portly person. 

Maggie heard her, and, laughing, broke into singing a merry 
boat-song which Willie had taught her, smoothing his face 
softly with her hands. So she sat all the long night, and Farmer 
Phillips and his wife kept her mournful company, longing for 
the day, and yet dreading the appearance of Maggie's father. 
But he came at last; and when the sad news was told him, he 
said nothing, only grew very white, and went to Maggie, lifted 
her face in his hands and cried : 

" Maggie, little Maggie, don't you know me ? " 

" Willie is dead and gone, now ; Willie is dead and gone ! " 
wailed the girl, sadly, wresting her face from his hands. 

He put back the great agony which was choking him, and 
spoke again: 

" Maggie, see, dear ; it is your father, and he has brought you 
the maple-leaves you wanted for your book. Look^ dear; how 
pretty they are ! " dangling the bunches before her. " Only 
think, dear. Oh, Maggie, don't look at me so ; try and remem- 
ber." 

" I do remember," she said sadly, and a gleam of light crept 
over the agonized father, only to be lost in deeper gloom as she 
went on: 

" Willie and I love each other, better than any one in the 
world, I think, and father would rather see me in my grave. 
How cold your face is, Willie, dear ! " 

" Maggie ! Maggie ! you'll kill me," groaned the poor father, 
dropping the leaves he had held, and sinking to a chair. " O 
my God ; my child is a raving maniac. Maggie ! Maggie ! my 
pretty Maggie." 

She was taken home, and her father, old and gray, and broken 
down from sorrow, cares for her tenderly and gently. To her he 



128 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

is never stern, never hard; and the villagers all love and are 
very good to her, believing that the angels have peculiar charge 
over her. She has the freedom of the village but oftenest and 
longest she stays by a grave in the churchyard, which, she 
fancies, is Willie's grave ; and poor Ophelia never cared for her 
father's more zealously than does Maggie for this one. It has 
been garlanded with flowers each weary day, for all these years, 
summer and winter, rain or sunshine. See, there is her white 
face again at the window, and I catch the refrain of her song: 

" O Willie has gone and left me, 
Left me in bitter pain, 
Of every joy has bereft me, 

But he'll come back again, again." 

" Ha-ha-ha." And to the music of that chilling laughter she 
has vanished. Poor Maggie McLain ! 

March 4, 1865. For the New York Mercury. 



MY DARLING 

I would fain make a heroine of my darling, I would set her 
up as an idol and worship her, I would make all the world 
think her perfection, but that I know she is no heroine; and, 
though an idol to many fond, foolish hearts, she is not perfec- 
tion, and the world will not think her so. She is only a faulty, 
flirting girl, but withal so sweet and lovable that one almost 
loves the faults. She is not beautiful, this girl ; there are many 
fairer ; not even pretty at times, but she is tall and graceful, 
with slender hands, and feet that move to the swift music as 
intuitively as her heart beats. She has shimmering shining 
eyes, never two moments the same color ; and a mouth all melting 
tenderness, like nothing in the world but its own luxuriant 
scarlet self. She has fine teeth, a soft, sweet voice, and a child- 
ish way of looking up at one and saying innocent little things, 
which is perfectly bewitching. She is half innocent; thank 
God, I can believe her so — wholly coquettish ; good, and true, 
and noble at heart, but to most of the world, foamy, fickle, and 
wild. 



EARLY PEOSE WORKS 129 

Alas ! that she must be like the heathen idols — imperfection. 
She wins hearts and glories in her power; wears them as she 
does their glittering offerings, and just as carelessly throws them 
aside. I cannot tell you what is her charm ; for she has neither 
birth, beauty, nor wealth, but she is charming. She has won 
me from my cynicism, she has won from many their cloistered 
hearts. 

Will you listen now to a story of my darling, of the time 
when she was more of a child, and, it may be, purer than she is 
now. Do you wish a name for her? I have called her 
" Daisy/' " Hearts-ease," " Mimosa," " Sweet Poem," but in my 
heart of hearts she is baptized " My Darling," you can call her 
as you like; since I first knew her, this has been her dearest 
name. 

How well I remember our first meeting ! We sat under the 
trees whose delicate tracery lay against the sky, and like sea- 
green broidery upon an azure robe, and the faint afternoon-sun- 
shine flickered down upon the grass at our feet, lighting it 
faintly, and its golden glow fell upon the head of my darling like 
a benediction. We had been talking of my darling's fiance, 
who had left her in this country. The beautiful poem of her 
love was commenced before I met her; had it not been, could 
I have written it in softer, happier cadences? I sometimes 
think so. A stranger-hand had taken the perfume from her 
heart, had stolen the dew from my daisy's girlhood while she 
still lingered, 

" Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet," 

and she was, foolish birdie ! happy in the theft ; telling me, with 
a faint rosy flush on her face, like the first breaking of the com- 
ing day, " Oh, I am so happy and yet so miserable ; so happy 
in being loved, so miserable in being separated from him." We 
became very confidential, my darling and I. I know she never 
knew how hard it was for me to play the role assigned, and I 
am glad she did not. She talked incessantly when with me of 
her hero; she was a perfect child, asking me with innocent 
face upraised: Was it very wrong for her to love him so? 
Was she foolish to think him so handsome, and good, and noble ? 



130 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

He was the handsomest fellow in the regiment. And so, I 
should judge, he was, from the picture she so often showed me. 

And I put by my great love for this child-woman with a 
trembling hand, listening to her patiently, and answering her 
cordially. 

A few months passed, and my darling's hero came for a few 
days. Those days were all sunshine for her, but they passed. 
He returned to his regiment, and she returned to me for com- 
fort; I could not comfort that pale, tearless face, and those 
cold hands holding so tenderly to his last gifts. Time did what 
I could not, and my daisy visibly brightened again. She was 
true to the absent in heart and actions; she saw no company, 
and even her innocent desires for gayety were held in abeyance 
to her great love: letters came and went; letters from him — 
calm, loving, and pleasant, like fresh cool water; letters from 
her — sparkling, fiery, and rich in love — like rare old wine. 
Her own love so brightened and glorified his epistles, that they 
were very precious to her. 

A blank came, and my darling grew pale and quiet. No let- 
ters, no tokens. She did not know that mails did not arrive 
from the Army until some weeks had passed. Then, in her 
childlike way, she reproached herself for having doubted him. 
Finally, letters came again to friends, but not to her, my 
darling; and she became her old gay self, rattling off songs, 
dancing all manners of queer dances, and chatting like a free- 
hearted child; but she grew pale, like winter-moonlight, and 
sometimes very, very sad. 

I loved her then, I love her now; and I would have died to 
save her from the next fearful trial ; but it is not my story I am 
telling. Many weary weeks before news came, then a tele- 
gram — " dead ! " She heard it in silence, walked quietly up 
to her own room, closed the door, and fainted. Hours after, 
they found her there, my poor daisy ! crushed and white, upon 
the floor, and for days she lay suffering under the terrible in- 
cubus of that one word. Then another telegram came — " Not 
dead, as reported, but dying," and shortly after, a letter to my 
darling, written, as he thought, upon his deathbed. I thought 
the letter then honest and true. It must have been. It would 
(to my poor wisdom, as it seems) have been better for my 



EAELY PEOSE WORKS 131 

darling had he died then ; but, contrary to all expectation, he 
recovered slowly; but, alas, maimed for life! This last ter- 
rible certainty was so bright in comparison to that she had 
feared, that my darling said, in the fullness of her loving heart, 
" Oh, thank God ! " How well I remember this first meeting 
after he became convalescent ! He heard her light step at the 
door, and called out, cheerily, " Come in, Birdie." She came, 
like a ray of sunshine, lighting the darkened room, unto him. 
He took both her hands in his, she stooping. Their lips met. 
Were mine white, then? They may have been. 

My daisy read to him the long summer-afternoon, or talked in 
her merry loving way, until he forgot his sickness and joined in 
the merriment. They played cards, but never long; for my 
daisy always flew into a little rage if she were beaten, and 
threw the cards at the winner. Then, laughing at her own pas- 
sion, would pick them up and put them away. He tried to teach 
her chess, but she did not want to learn, and would plead off 
so sweetly that the chess board usually found a place on the 
carpet as foot-stool to the little tyrant. Those were happy days 
to her. I never saw her during the summer; but I knew that 
she was happy, and that her " hero," as she termed him when 
he was quite well, was not. She teased him by " tragedizing," 
as she called it ; threats to go on the stage, and, more than all, 
by flirting. Her old desires returned in full force — all the 
more so, perhaps, from having been kept in check for so long. 
She was soon her old teasing, tormenting, bewitching, bewilder- 
ing, self, yet loving him wholly. Alas, he did not know how 
entirely he held her pure heart in his keeping. She was a sad 
flirt ; but in the witchery of her presence he forgave her that ; 
and when they parted, it was in the hope of being married in one 
year. Ah, the flowers will never blossom, and the birds will 
never sing for the year in which those two will marry. The 
golden chain which bound their hearts is broken, the urn shat- 
tered, and the perfume lost. 

When my darling's hero came home from the war, he said to 
her : "lam poor and a cripple — you are free." But she laid 
her tender hand, on which shone her engagement-ring, upon 
his lips, and said, firmly, " Until death do us part." She was 
young and ambitious; but she did not hesitate, though the sad 



132 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

truth of those words, " poor and a cripple," cut her to the 
heart. She was noble, and true, and loving, my dear darling; 
and I glory to think of it. I think I was proud of her heroism, 
then, though I was very unhappy. 

But I shall never finish my story if I ramble so sadly. He 
went to Washington, this " hero " of my darling's, and I think 
his handsome face must have won him admiration. His letters 
grew colder, and my darling (she was but young, a gay, happy 
creature, and she loved pleasures), to forget them, flirted, 
danced, attended operas, parties, and wrote her lover weekly let- 
ters, as cold as his own. 

Of course, Madam Rumor bore to him exaggerated accounts 
of her gayety ; and gradually, slowly, but surely, the sun of their 
love went down. 

The end came. A time when the ring was sent back, when 
she turned her white chill face to me, and said : 

" Oh, Ernest, I have loved him so long, so long. It is hard 
to part forever." 

I who had loved so long, so deep, could pity her, my poor 
daisy ; and I am glad to think that perhaps my friendship was 
some little relief to her in her trouble. 

She did not blame him, though she knew he was false. Once 
in her agony, she read his last note : 

" May God bless you ! " it ended. 

" May God curse him ! " she answered, through clenched 
teeth. 

But the words were yet warm on her lips when she revoked 
them tearfully : "I did not mean it. Oh, I was wild, but I 
did not mean it. May God bless him ! " 

And after that I never heard a word of reproach. 

My daisy did not die from her great sorrow; such hearts 
never break. She grew very white and delicate for a time, but 
I have never known her so gay as she was at the time of her 
greatest suffering. 

" The lips may be gay, though the heart break," she said to 
me, one evening, when she paused for a moment from enacting 
Juliet on an entirely new method, to the great amusement of 
her auditors. 

She would make a fine actress. I thought so as she stood with 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 133 

her soulful eyes gazing affrightedly into space ; her form quiv- 
ering from apparent fear, her hand upraised and pointing, and 
her peculiarly low voice thrilling her listeners: 

" Oh, look, methinks I see my cousin's ghost, 
Seeking out Romeo's, that did spit his body 
Upon a rapier's point. 
Stay, Tybalt, stay; Romeo, I come." 

Down fell the uplifted hand, and she broke off with a gay 
laugh. 

My darling was like a rainbow, constantly changing, but 
very bright in every change. She could sing, and dance, and 
flirt, but the quivering lips and paling cheek could not fail to 
tell me how she suffered. 

Time has passed; a few brief months, but they have aged 
my daisy. She has lost much of her freshness, much of her 
youth, many of her sweet, childlike ways that were so charming. 
She has ceased to be what she was, and has become — my heart 
hesitates to acknowledge it — a practised flirt. 

The sand of the world has passed over my pearl, and sullied 
it. It is still a pearl, I am glad to know it is still a pearl, 
though marred. 

Do not think too ill of my darling, for at heart she is better 
and nobler than most girls who have given themselves to the 
sole labor of fashion. 

There is but one word more, and I have written all that I can 
of her. Here is an extract from her letter: 

" I shall marry soon. I do not love my fiance, though I 
respect him — my old time hero took all the strength out from 
my heart — but he loves me, and will be to me a true, noble 
husband. I shall marry him. It is something to have a man, 
and a manly man, who has traveled much, and seen many beau- 
tiful women, so perfectly devoted to such a flirt of a girl as I 
am. 

" My old flame passed to-day. My heart stood still until he 
was out of sight. I shall never love any one as I love him. I 
try to forget, but cannot. I shall marry soon. I must leave 
this life of excitement and find rest somewhere." 

My darling, O my darling. Once I wrote of her: 



134 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" I've found a gem in the heart of the world, 
A pearl in the oyster shell; 
And this rarest gem, because it is rare, 
I will cherish most safely and well. 

I'll set it about with the rubies of love, 
They shall burn, and sparkle, and glow, 

And I'll form them into an endless ring, 
Which shall circle my idol so." 

And it is not less true now that she is a little further from 
me. She is still my gem and my pearl ; and the burning ring 
of my love shall separate her from the evil of the world ; and I 
know that her good angel will sometime " make her to lie down 
in green meadows, and lead her beside the still waters " where 
she shall " find rest to her soul." My darling, O my darling, 
may this be soon ! 

March 18, 1865. For the New York Mercury, 



THE TWIN SPIES 

The sun was not an hour above the western horizon, when an 
officer, wearing the Confederate uniform, rode slowly through 
the gorge bearing the significant name of " Devil's Gap." It was 
a dark, dangerous place, being a narrow road, walled up on 
either side by rocks to the distance of nine or ten hundred feet, 
always dark, and the air was heavy with the fragrance of cedar. 
Through this, the officer quickened the pace of his steed, only 
drawing rein when once from out its shadow. Then he drank 
in all the beauty of the sunset as it gilded the mountains in the 
distance, and tinged the grand old pines nearby with crimson 
and gold. He came unattended, having apparently come but 
a short distance, and being in no particular hurry. Half a 
mile from the Gap he came to a rude log cabin, differing in 
nothing from those ordinarily built and occupied by the lowest 
class of whites, in the Border States. It was built, as I said, 
with logs unhewn, and the chinks filled in with plaster and pieces 
of rock, with a low door and two small windows in front; but 
from the latter the glass (if there ever had been any) was re- 
moved, and the former stood open to admit the evening air. 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 135 

The cabin was surrounded by a wall built of boulders, piled one 
above the other, and overrun with vines, among which the 
scarlet flowers of the Virginia creeper shone conspicuously, giv- 
ing a picturesque appearance to the whole habitation. The 
cabin being built on the mountain-side, the yard, or " farm " 
as it was called, ran up quite a distance, and constituted the sole 
support of the squatter's, family. In the front part of the yard 
stood an old cart, with one wheel broken off, and the shafts 
more ingeniously than elegantly mended by odds and ends of 
rope. In this were crowded several ragged, dirty children, bus- 
ily engaged in blowing soap-bubbles, and making as much noise 
as was practicable, considering the size of their lungs. At the 
door lounged the proprietor of the domain, a tall, lank fellow, 
lazily smoking his pipe. Inside the door sat a woman, engaged 
in mending old clothes. She was sweet and gentle in appear- 
ance, but broken down by hard labor and trouble. In the back- 
yard, a young girl was digging potatoes. This much the officer 
noted as he followed the narrow path leading from the main 
road up to the gate of the cabin. The children, at sight of 
him, ceased their noise, and stared at him, and the man, in an- 
swer to his " Evening, Smith," left his seat and hobbled down to 
the gate, appearing very lame. 

" How d'ye, Captain ; I'm uncommon glad to see ye. Come 
in, can't ye. Here you, Peggy, come hold the Captain's crit- 
ter," calling to the young laborer in the background. 

She lifted a face which was angrily flushed, and her eyes were 
flashing with hatred. 

" Hold his horse ! " she hissed. " Wonder if he remembers 
stealing mine. Well, patience." 

She conquered the expression on her face, wiped her plump 
hands on her apron, stuck her spade in the potato-hill, then 
went down to the walk cheerfully, humming a negro-melody. 
The officer smiled at sight of her pretty fresh, piquant face, 
and said: 

" How do you do, my pretty." 

" As I please," she returned sharply, catching the horse's bit. 

" So do I," was the laughing retort, as the Captain sprang 
lightly from his saddle, and bestowed a hearty kiss upon the lips 
of the unsuspecting hostler. 



136 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Again her eyes flashed fire, and she struck her hand forcibly 
in his face, causing him to recoil suddenly. 

"Why, girl!" he ejaculated, as he recovered himself. 
" Zounds, but those hands are strong. A dozen kisses wouldn't 
pay for that." 

" No, for there'd be a dozen blows," she returned. 

The Captain laughed good-naturedly, and followed the man 
Smith, who had been an amused spectator of the scene, to the 
cabin. Peggy tied the horse to one of the low cedars growing 
near the gate, and went back to her work, only selecting a hill 
near the window where she could hear all that was said, and 
not be observed herself. Listening attentively, the first words 
she heard were : 

" I'll offer you more ; will fifty dollars tempt you ? " 

" Well, Captain," was the answer, " ye see the chap's a kind 
of relation, second-cousin or something; but seein' it's for a 
good cause, I'll catch the young rascal. He's in the mountains 
here, I guess. You'll be certain and pay the fifty, Captain ? " 

" Yes, certainly. Best hurry up, Smith." 

" Can't do nothing f aster'n I can, Captain ; no use talkin'. 
To-morrow mornin' I'll try and find him, if you send me some 
men." 

" You're sure he's on the mountains ? " 

" Think so." 

" Which one ? " 

" Stone Peak." 

" Well, I'll guard that ; and if you have need to pass the sen- 
tries, remember the password is ' Pete.' How is it," lowering 
his voice, " with the girl ? " 

" She's true as steel, though she has spunk, and won't have 
her brother talked about." 

" Sure she is true ? " 

" Certain. Why, yesterday, when some Feds come up for 
a snack to eat, what did she do but fill their wallets with old 
papers, every one on 'em. She's a cute one, is Peg." 

" Old papers!" ejaculated the Captain. "What kind of 
papers ? " 

" Everything she could find. She put in precious little lunch, 
and a deal of old papers and old leaves." 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 137 

The Captain was evidently not satisfied. 

" You'd best watch her," he said. " She may be all right, but 
he's such a confounded scamp; best keep an eye on her. I'll 
guard that mountain, every pass ; and you'll take him to-morrow, 
dead or alive — remember." 

The officer arose, and, seeing Peggy at the far end of the lot, 
whither she had suddenly betaken herself, called out, " Peggy, 
girl, won't you give me a good-night kiss," laughing and rub- 
bing his cheek as he went down the path. Peggy deigned no 
answer, only gave a spiteful slap at one of the children who was 
passing, at which the Captain " ha-ha-ed," and then mounting 
his horse rode away. As for Peggy, she went into the house and 
began preparing supper. 

« Peggy^" said Smith, putting on a careless air, " haven't 
heerd nothin' from yer brother, have ye ? " 

" You say I ain't," she retorted, coolly, " and if you say so, 
I spose it's so." 

" Can't ye be civil ? I don't mean the chap no harm." 

" Ugh," said Peggy, " what business is it of yours whether 
I have or whether I ain't ? 'Cause the lad's wrong in one thing 
he ain't goin' to be talked agin, I tell ye." 

" It's none of my business, gal, true enough, only curiosity 
asked." 

" Then let curiosity answer, I ain't goin' to/' returning to her 
work in the little shed. 

" Don't tease her, John," called out the meek wife from her 
window. " She ain't got no chance to learn nothin', you know 
very well." 

" You shut up, will ye," answered the pattern husband. " I 
don't reckon she has; but I say, Peg, you're true to the cause, 
ain't ye?" 

" Yes," she returned, " I'M true to the cause ; " adding in an 
undertone, " He little knows what cause ; true as steel : I'll 
die for it, or what's more, let Pete die." 

" Good for you, gal. I told the Captain I knowed you was all 
right, and you ain't a gal to lie." 

Here the conversation ended. The meal was ready and dis- 
posed of, the children stowed away for the night, and shortly 
after, according to custom, the family retired, going to bed with 



138 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

the sun. Midnight, and one of them was astir — the girl 
Peggy. Up, dressed, and with a basket of provisions, she un- 
did the bar from the door, and passed out. It was a cloudy 
night, and a faint moon only made ghastly shadows, without af- 
fording much light. The girl shuddered slightly as she glided 
softly out of the gate and down the road, and the shuddering 
was changed to trembling when she entered the " Devil's Gap " ; 
but she was brave, and had a purpose at heart; so she trudged 
on until a narrow path up the mountain-side presented itself. 
Up this she climbed, starting at every sound, well knowing that 
stragglers from both armies were likely to be lurking there. 
Up, up she climbed, stooping frequently where the underbush 
grew over the path to raise the bushes and crawl under them. 
Winding around the mountain, in a path like the threads of a 
screw, she at last came to an immense rock jutting over the cliff. 
Under this she took her stand, giving a low call like the call of 
a cat-bird. It was answered by another, higher up the moun- 
tain. Again she repeated the signal, and then there was a 
slight rustling and bending of the bushes above her, and a lad 
let himself down from above, gave her a cordial kiss, took the 
basket, and began eagerly to devour the contents. 

" Pete," said Peggy, " do you know they've set a price on your 
head?" 

Pete lifted the head which was " priced," and said, " More 
fools, they ! It ain't worth it ; I didn't know they took heads in 
these days. First-rate meal, sis. I was very hungry." 

" Never mind that, Pete ; I tell you your life's in danger. 
I've fed you for two weeks here, but now every pass is guarded 
but the old one that I know of, and, perhaps it is ; 'twasn't when 
I came, though. Smith has promised to give you up for fifty 
dollars." 

" Sets my value pretty high," said the boy, coolly. " Won't 
give me up till he gets me, will he? but sis, how about the 
news ? " 

" I gave it to the Colonel in his haversack. That's all right." 

" Good." 

"Now," pondered the girl, "I've a plan for getting you off 
safe. If you can get to Cumberland, the Colonel is there, and 
you'll be nicely saved." 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 139 

From easy good-nature the boy's face changed to anxiety; 
and he said, earnestly, " I've been in a good many dangers, sis, 
and I'll try to get out of this, as well as those. Let's hear your 
plans." 

" There's but one way, Pete. I must stay here, and you must 
go to Smith's, stay all night, get breakfast in the mornin', wash 
the young ones, and then Mrs. Smith'll send you to Cumberland 
to sell 'taters. If you can do this, you're safe. They never can 
tell us apart; we talk alike and act alike, and I'll give you the 
password, so that if there are guards on the path now you can 
pass. I'll stay here, and join you as soon as I can." 

There was a mixture of the refined girl and the low squatter 
about Peggy's language which struck one forcibly. Not edu- 
cated herself, she had been with her brother a great deal during 
the past year, whom she had aided in getting a few years' school- 
ing, and this intimacy had raised her language and ideas very 
materially above the level of her relatives, the Smiths. 

Pete laughed at the plan so earnestly given, then said: 
" You're a cute girl, sis, and a good one ; but I can't wash young 
ones, cook, and clean dishes." 

" Yes, you can, Pete, you alius used to help me. Don't take 
such long steps, that's all. But be quite as surly as I am of a 
mornin' — givin' the young ones a slap side o' the head, every 
once in a while. Good my hair's short. Now we must change 
clothes." 

The exchange was soon effected ; but so complete was the re- 
semblance between the twins, that it seemed no change had been 
made. 

" Sis," said Pete, " you've been a good sister to me, and are all 
I have in the world. I'd never leave you here alone if I didn't 
know the good Lord would take care of you. I'll wait for you 
in Cumberland ; and, now, if we never meet again, good-bye and, 
God bless you." 

He held her a moment in his arms, received the password, 
and then they parted ; Pete to go down the mountain — brave, 
daring boy that he was ! — and his equally brave sister to spend 
the remainder of the night in the rocks. 

Half-way down the pass, Peter was met by an order to " halt," 
and accordingly halted, gave the password coolly, and after a 



140 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

keen glance and, " What's a gal doin' up here at this hour % " 
to which he replied, that the Captain sent him, he was allowed 
to pass. Beyond this he met no other danger. 

The morning rose brightly, and Pete rose with it, awakened 
the young ones, and proceeded to dress them ; making so many 
blunders, that Mrs. Smith aroused herself enough to say: 

" Seems to me, Peggy, I wouldn't put Johnny's pants on 
Mary, and Mary's frock and sun-bonnet on Johnny. What ails 
you this morning ? you must be asleep." 

The meal got on no better ; and finally the wily Peter, finding 
that he could not do Peggy's work, burst into tears, declaring 
that he had dreamed some one was trying to get Pete to hang 
him; and so worked upon her kind-hearted cousin's sympathy 
that she got the meal and said : 

" Peggy, best dig them few taters and then take them to the 
town. They're worth their weight in silver, I reckon, and the 
walk'll do ye good, gal ; so hurry up." 

This was just what Pete desired of all things, and he pro- 
ceeded with such alacrity that Mrs. Smith ejaculated: 

" Lud, what a team that gal is when she's a mind to be." 

At the gate Pete met Smith. 

" Why, Peg," he said, " you're brown as a berry ; do for the 
Army a'most. Goin' to the town ? " 

" Reckon," said Pete, starting off in exact imitation of 
Peggy. " If I ain't goin' nowhere else." 

" Ugh ! " ejaculated Smith. " Cross as a bear." 

On went Peter, reached the city in safety and penetrated to 
the Colonel's sanctum-sanctorum by means best known to him- 
self, to whom he delivered his important budget of news, and 
received, in return, the sincere thanks of the Colonel ; for money 
he would not, excepting pay for the potatoes. 

Just as he was preparing to leave, the guard brought in Peggy. 
By some means she had been captured on the mountains and 
brought in. 

Her, the Colonel declared to be his real spy ; but though some 
difficulty was found to convince him to the contrary, it was 
finally accomplished. 

Pete was furnished with a Federal uniform and sent to the 



EAKLY PROSE WORKS 141 

ranks again ; and Peggy, resuming her own clothes, taking the 
empty basket and money, trudged back to her quondam home ; 
and though that was one year ago, Mrs. Smith still speaks of 
" how queer it was that chap got out from the mountain, no one 
knew how, when they was all a lookin' for him ; and how Peggy 
acted, boxing Johnny's ears 'cause Mary cried, and doing all 
sorts o' odd things fur her." 

March 25, 1865. For the New York Mercury, 



LADIES PROMENADE 

A grand ball, in aid of a great charity, came off last week in 
New York, and the rich ladies who attended it wore white 
powder on their hair. Others had their hair plentifully sanded 
with gold, and some wore golden ornaments that were quite as 
large as the small street-bonnets worn now-a-days. How can 
women expect men to regard them as more than playthings when 
they spend the burden of their lives in personal adornment, and 
carry empty minds, to unfit them for the greater enjoyments 
than those of the sense or the leisure ? 

A rambling but readable letter ensues, speaking of almost 
everything out of the range of controversy. 

Dear Mercury: — If Ernest can be so cordially received into 
your columns, you will surely not shut Ernesta from the dear 
Ladies' Promenade, since she has, as is the fate of the maid- 
creation, all of the labor and little of the glory. She realizes 
the fact which Josh Billings so graphically quotes, as " some 
have greatness hove upon them," and thinks that all the feminine 
creation wish unselfishly to heave greatness upon their so-called 
lords and masters. Don't think, I pray you, that she aids and 
abets so laudable an undertaking, for that would be beyond her 
power, but she states the fact for further elucidation, from some 
of the dear Sisters of the Promenade. 

This brings me to first person, singular number, feminine gen- 
der. Dear Colonel, may I enter the Promenade, followed by 
one great terror, of course, — for when is it that it don't follow 
me — and claim sympathy of the dear Sisters and yourself ? 



142 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

This great terror, in common parlance, is termed a black cat, 
but to me it has long since become the black cat of all the world. 
Listen to my story, and judge of my trials. 

Pity and compassionate me. I have need of all your sym- 
pathy. I am not naturally unhappy, or discontented with my 
lot. " The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places ; " but I 
have two great terrors, going down the cellar-steps and the 
Black Cat. The steps are neither so steep, nor so long, nor so 
slippery as those I descended, head first generally, in my youth- 
ful days. In fact, not so much so as those which even in later 
times I have taken great pleasure in ascending at Niagara — in 
reality not steep, or long, or slippery at all ; only six little nar- 
row steps, which the rusty nails are too indolent, or careless, or 
infirm, to hold together. These steps descend to a trap-door in 
the kitchen-floor. This door has a very doubtful fastening 
against the kitchen-wall, which looks as though it might cease 
to be a fastening at the precise moment when one was half 
way down those steps. I hope I am not a coward, but knowing 
that I must descend twice a day, I begin to tremble the mo- 
ment they are mentioned. I lift the door, and lay it carefully 
back ; then put one trembling foot upon the first stair. A table 
reaches a friendly leaf to me, I grasp it, and attempt a back- 
ward descent, whereupon the table executes the difficult feat of 
standing upon its two fore-legs, to the great danger of sundry 
crockery, etc. I release the wing, and it ceases its gymnastic 
performances. I reach the trap-door, but it has so decided an 
intention of coming down upon my devoted head, that I release 
it also, and seize the floor, then gradually, but womanfully make 
the perilous descent, step by step, and accomplish it. This is 
the shadow of the skeleton in my closet. The bona-fide article 
is embodied in the shape of a dark cat. Dark is it ? Shadow of 
Pluto ! Black — she is all black, but her round yellow eyes 
have a sulphurous gleam very much such as must belong to 
Hades ; and her mouth has a perpetual inclination to stand open, 
revealing sharp white teeth and a scarlet tongue. 

Somehow I fancy that cat is animated by somebody's spirit ; 
somebody who was my enemy, I'm sure, or she wouldn't haunt 
me so ; somebody who was wicked, or she wouldn't look so like 
an imp belonging to his Majesty Tartarus ; somebody who was 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 143 

starved to death, or she wouldn't have such an unconscionable ap- 
petite. 

This cat, this black cat haunts me. I cannot go to the back- 
door but she rises from the depths of the slop-pail, her glittering 
eyes turning into mine, her mouth wide open ; or rushes at me 
from the stoop, or flies from me like a " brimstone creature," 
always careful to brush my clothes as she passes. 

I cannot go downstairs but she must crawl under a board 
upon which I am compelled to step, (I do so in fear and 
trembling, I assure you ; but the evil spirit which I know is in 
that cat, should prove the vincibility of board, and rise to my 
everlasting ruin). I cannot run upstairs but that tormenting 
plague must needs be going down, and shoots past me, startling 
me by a vague, undefined shadow, with flaming eyes. If I were 
a Catholic, I should cross myself, tell my beads, and utter an 
Ave Marie, whenever she appears. Had I the profound faith 
necessary, I might be enabled so to exorcise her, but I am in- 
clined to believe that a spirit so black, so evil, so audacious and 
voracious, would not stir for ban, or bead, or prayer. All the 
Roman Priesthood, backed by the whole calendar of saints to 
boot, could not move her. She lives and haunts me. I think 
she lives on purpose to haunt me, to provoke me to throwing pails 
of cold water on her, and to agitating small billets of wood in 
her direction, to hear my flattering bene (?) dictions upon her- 
self. I really think she has a delight in being designated as 
" Imp," " Satan," " Demon," " Ghost," and " sable Dickens." 
I really do think the spirit in that cat is so depraved, that it en- 
joys my agony, my impatience, and my anger, and even my fear. 

Why, I go around the house to avoid that cat. I step into 
the snow, or mud giving her path, or ignominiously rush in the 
house and lock the door; sure, even then, that her eyes are 
turning into mine through the key-hole or that I shall see her 
terrible corpus projecting itself through the window where a 
pane is out, and the shutters are open, which latter I dare not 
close lest I be seized (mentally) by the sight of that arch fiend. 

I'm afraid her fancy will be the death of me some day. As I 
said I hope I am not cowardly, I believe I could walk up to a 
cannon and be shot at like a Christian (and sure it wasn't 
loaded). I am almost sure I could endure to have a moder- 



144 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

ately-large tooth extracted; but worse than cannon, more ter- 
rible than teeth, is this monster. I feed her, and she opens her 
mouth and comes closer all the same. I can't kill her. Every 
one knows a cat has nine lives, and if I should do away with 
one, I know — to a melancholy certainty, that the unity being 
destroyed, the other eight would immediately resolve themselves 
into separate black cats, with yellow eyes, and I should have 
the whole crowd upon me at once. If I were a heathen, I'd sac- 
rifice her to the gods once a day for three weeks, provided that I 
could be assured that each separate piece would not develop 
into a new cat, to follow the example of her illustrious prede- 
cessor. 

Saints and angels what shall I do? I fain cry! What do 
they know of that spirit of darkness ? I do not like to call on 
the darker angels, thereby becoming a modern Faust — selling 
my soul for, not riches, nor honor, nor love, but a black cat. If 
the spirit which animates her don't get tired, I'm sure I'll have 
to vacate the premises. But she'd follow me I know. 

" Through bush, through brier, 
Over park, over pale, 
Through flood, through fire, 
Over hill, over dale." 

I am quite certain she " would wander everywhere " after 
my miserable self. 

Will you let me into the charmed circle of the Promenade 
column ? I will not be so tedious another time. 

Ernesta. 

April 1, 1865. 



KITTIE CLYDE'S HERO 

" Was she pretty ? " Yes, I think so. Not at all beautiful, 
but a wildering, winsome kind of prettiness, which was very 
winning. You never saw any one just like her, for she was 
only like herself, and hardly that. She had tempting lips and 
witching eyes, hidden under long coquettish lashes ; a pleasing, 
pleasant face that was always fresh, and pure, like the dew in 
the heart of a rose before the sun is up. 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 145 

By the way, do you lady-readers ever think in how difficult 
position we are placed by you — how you hem us in between 
Scylla and Charybdis on the question of beauty? If we as- 
sert that our heroine is beautiful, then " that is the old story. 
Of course all heroines are lovely, but it is a desperate departure 
from nature." If, on the other hand, we say she is homely, 
then you are dissatisfied, and " wish she were beautiful. 7 ' How, 
acting according to the laws of motion in reference to a body 
impelled by equal force, acting in opposite directions, I, of 
course, can go neither, but must remain quiescent or take my 
own course. Therefore, in spite of opposing criticism I am 
compelled to aver that Kittie Clyde was just as pretty as melt- 
ing mouth, and wildering eyes, and witching smiles could make 
her. Tall enough to be womanly, small enough to be child-like ; 
wise enough to be trusted, simple enough to be trusting; loving 
to pet and fondle, and more liking to be petted and fondled. 
At once, a womanly child, and a childish woman; an unblown 
bud, with the fragrance of the full blown rose closely sheltered 
in its heart. She was not particularly inclined to coquetry, 
though woman-like fond of displaying her power. She had as 
yet broken no hearts, but one she had taken entire, and held 
subservient to her despotic little will, bound closely by the 
silken cords of her love. Kittie loved this one heart better 
than all the world besides. This great, noble, manly heart, 
which had chosen her as its one jewel of great price; and she 
loved its kindly shelter, feeling that it was the truest heart 
that ever beat — the heart of her hero. 

The village was in a " flutter," for a stranger had appeared. 
A dashing, flashing fellow, resplendent in a new suit of laven- 
der, and an immense cluster-diamond, which latter was worn 
upon his little finger, set all Wishton crazy. Of course, this star 
saw and was introduced to our Kittie and, just as a matter 
of course, then and there began a desperate flirtation between 
Miss Kittie Clyde and Mr. Dick Wilton, much to the discom- 
fiture of Robert Duncan, Kittie's " hero." 

" Kittie," said the latter gentleman, one sweet, cool morning 
in July, when all the youth of the village were preparing for a 
grand afternoon on the river, and tea on the island — which lay 
like an emerald in its silver setting — and a moonlight row 



146 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

homeward. " Of course, you'll go with me. I've chartered a 
gem of a boat for the purpose." 

Kittie began playing with the tassels of her wrapper, looking 
out at him from the corners of her eyes. 

" Well — no, Eobert. You're too late in the day. I 
promised Mr. Wilton yesterday to go with him." 

" Alone, Kittie ? " 

" Why, yes. Why not % He's chartered a little skiff." 

Robert's brow darkened. 

" Do you mean what you say ? " he asked a little sternly. 

Kittie arched her brow slightly. 

" Of course I do. How dull you are growing, Robert ! I 
said, Mr. Wilton had engaged me to go with him." 

" Very well," said Robert. " Very well. Good-morning 
Miss Clyde, " turning away. 

" Robert, Robert ; what is the matter ? Come right back here. 
You're a perfect bear, a tiger, a — " 

Robert went back, his face all sunshine. 

" I was an idiot ; I might have known you were only joking, 
and you will go with me, Kittie, won't you ? and you won't go 
with that Wilton, will you ? " 

" Won't you ? Will you ? Won't you ? " echoed the little 
tease, laughing her little laugh. " Of course, I meant it ; and 
I will, and I won't. Seriously, Robert — now don't look so like 
a tiger-cat ; that's a fine fellow — I've promised Dick, and I 
must go. Indeed I must," 

" But it's not right, Kittie." 

Robert's face was in shadow again. 

" Why not. I should be pleased to know, Mr. Robert Dun- 
can ? " * 

" Simply, because I am to be of the party, and very much 
prefer taking care of you myself." 

" You do. Well, I don't see that to-day. I prefer to be 
taken care of by some one else." 

" What do you mean by that ? Always ? " 

" It is immaterial to me," said Kittie, lightly slipping the 
broad ring upon her finger up and down. 

" Do you know what you are saying ? " demanded Robert, 
fiercely. 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 147 

" Perfectly, I think." 

" Then listen to me. I am not like that ring, capable of 
being slipped on and off at pleasure; and once for all, if you 
go this afternoon under the charge of Dick Wilton, he may keep 
you. We are nothing to each other after that. I await your 
decision." 

How the cheeks flushed and the red lips curled ! 

" Pray, don't," she returned, coldly. " It would be a waste 
cf your precious time. Allow me to return your fetter, Sir." 

She slipped the ring from her finger into his hand. It rolled 
to the walk, and he set his foot upon it, grinding it into powder. 

" So," he said, bitterly, " perish all the love I ever had for 
this froth of the sea ! " 

" Amen," echoed Kittie, laughing. " I wish you a good- 
morning, Sir." 

Up the gravel walk she tripped lightly, with face flushed, 
and eyes moist, but her clear tones broke into singing, " Merrily, 
merrily on the Sea " ; and every glad tone fell like sharp light- 
ning upon the heart of Kobert Duncan. He did not dream how 
heavy the heart was under that laughing face, nor how soon in 
her own room she was sobbing bitterly, nor the desolate white- 
ness of her hand, and kissing the small marks left by the " fet- 
ter." 

Kobert Duncan strode fiercely away, manlike, blaming Kittie 
much, himself none; and in that angry hour engaged Marie 
Guest, Kittie's especial aversion, to accompany him. 

Laughter and music, and singing, chatting, and cheering, and 
commands; the merry chime of bells, and then off shoved the 
boats from the shore, five of them, out in the turquoise river. 
Kittie and Wilton took the lead in light canoe ; Marie and Rob- 
ert brought up the rear. It was a merry rowing party upon 
a still river, and under a cloudless sky. All were in the best 
of spirits, apparently, and the music of gay laughter and glad 
songs floated over the waves ; oftenest and gayest, Kittie's clear 
tones and Robert's manly ones. Little dreamed the party that 
those two, under so much gayety, were suffering intensely. 
Foolish little Kittie wondered that the boat didn't sink, over- 
laden by her heavy heart. But, finally, the island was reached ; 
lunch was prepared and partaken of, the baskets repacked, and 



148 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

dancing on the green commenced. How the long grass curled 
itself mischievously about the tripping feet ! How many falls 
there were, and how the unfortunate ones were laughed at! 
But laughter reached its climax when Kittie fell! Wilton 
picked her up gallantly, kissed the grasses just raising them- 
selves from the pressure of her feet, repeating : 

" Even the hare-bell raised its head 
Elastic from her airy tread." 

And Kittie was like a little rosebud for blushing. Robert Dun- 
can watched this scene with lowering brow, and bit his lip till 
the blood came, when Wilton touched his lips to Kittie's fair 
hand. But this harpy at the feast was unobserved. 

Evening-shadows were falling. The party had re-embarked, 
and Kittie and her escort, only waiting a few moments after 
the last boat pushed off, entered theirs. Robert and Marie had 
not pushed off from the shore yet. Wilton allowed the boat 
to float slowly down stream, listening to the music of " Ossian's 
Seranade," and the steady dipping of oars as it came to them 
from the fast-receding party, talking in his pleasant, dash- 
ing style of Venice, and Rome, and Naples ; and finally, coming 
nearer home : 

" Miss Kittie," he said, half playfully, half earnestly, " it 
is a notable fact that I who have been in the rarest gardens of the 
world, have found the rarest rose in the wilderness, out here." 
He added, musingly, " I wonder if it is ' born to blush un- 
seen.' " Blushing, the " rarest rose " certainly was, and he 
saw it under the moonlight, but went on : " Do you know this 
has been one of the happiest days of my life ? What is it ? " 
suddenly, as Kittie leaned very far over the water to catch her 
fan which had fallen — " don't lean so ; you'll upset the boat — 
take care ! " 

Alas, too late ! Kittie was in the water and the boat capsized. 
Wilton could not swim, but he clung desperately to the oar, 
calling to Kittie to come to him as he floated down stream. She 
lifted her white face above the cruel waters, buoyed up by 
her clothing, and from her lips came a cry which froze the blood 
in the heart of Robert Duncan as it reached him on the waters. 

" Help ! Robert ! Robert ! " He was some distance from 
her, but a few rapid, fierce strokes brought his canoe near her. 



EARLY PKOSE WOKKS 149 

" Courage, Kittie ! I am here," he called to her ; and the 
next moment he had caught the poor, fainting form in his arms, 
drawn her into the boat, and satisfied that she was not injured, 
thanks to her airy clothing, only fainting. He saw the drifting 
boat before him, heard Wilton's cry, and rowed to him. Him 
he aroused from the deathly fear which was killing him, and 
took him, with a kind of pitiful contempt, under his own care, 
listening to his excuses for leaving Kittie, " because he was un- 
able to swim," with clenched hands. 

Kittie was very white, and weak, and dripping; and it was 
with a heavy heart that Duncan carried her home that night. 
Three days passed, and not once had Robert Duncan called to 
hear of Kittie' s welfare, though Dick Wilton had been each day 
to inquire. Kittie felt this neglect deeply. She did not know 
that he had inquired every day of her uncle ; but feeling grate- 
ful to him, as well as repentant for all of her naughty deeds, 
on the third day, she sent for him, and he, in accordance with 
that request, presented himself in the parlor, calm, kind, and 
manly, her old hero. Just as he entered, the servant came in, 
bringing her Dick Wilton's card. 

" Engaged," said Kittie, with a slight curl to her lips. 

The servant bowed and withdrew. 

She was sitting in an easy-chair, looking very white and 
delicate, like a snow-drop, and Robert's heart smote him as he 
saw her. She offered one hand with a smile and said gently, 
" I am glad to see you, Mr. Duncan." 

He took the little hand, held it a moment, then released it, 
saying, " I am happy to see you so much better." 

" Yes, I am better — much," was the reply, as he took a chair 
opposite her, " but I feel as though the wings of the death-angel 
had passed over me, I can feel their shadow yet." 

" You do look a little shadowed," Robert returned, smiling 
gravely. 

She lifted her clear, truthful eyes to his and said, half -sadly. 
" I am. I sent for you to thank you, if such can be done by 
words, for saving my life and to tell you that I am sorry " — 
a casting down of the eyes, a flushing of the waxen face, and 
she went on steadily " that I ever gave the preserver of my 
life any pain." 



150 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" You owe me no thanks/' he said, carefully avoiding men- 
tioning her name, "for I did but an act of common humanity 
— • as for the other part of your sentence, are you sorry merely 
because Fate placed you under obligations to me ? " 

Kittie was silent, and he went on softly. 

" I, too, have a confession to make. I was jealous and over- 
bearing, and blinded by passion, when I said what I did. Will 
you forgive, and dare I ask — forget that I said it ? " 

He bent eagerly toward her, took the hand she offered between 
his own, and retained it there. 

" Will you," he repeated, under his breath. 

" Yes, Mr. Duncan, if I had anything to forgive, I forgive you 
freely." 

How that " Mr. Duncan " wounded him she knew by his 
quick drawn breath. 

" Will you forgive me, Mr. Duncan ? " 

" Certainly, else I should not have dared ask it of you ; we 
parted in anger, and it came near being true that the tender 
grace of a day that is dead could never come back to us." 

" The tender grace of a day that is dead," she repeated, wear- 
ily. " How restful that sounds, and I am so tired." 

Closer to her bent Robert, all the old love deepening his voice. 
" Kittie, will you have all the old rest back again ? Answer 
me truly, as you hope for Heaven, my darling." 

" O my darling," and Kittie reached up her arms to him 
like a child pleading to be taken up, twined them about his 
neck, and repeated softly, " I will have the old rest back again 
my darling, O my darling ! " And she has had it ever since, 
the one jewel shining in the heart of her hero, his one rose of 
all the world, Kittie Clyde. 

April 8, 1865. For the New York Mercury. 



THE HEROIC MANY 

We are in church, reader — that is, I am, and you are in 
duty bound to follow me, for I want to converse with you of 
those whom Grace Greenwood styles " the heroic in common 
life." 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 151 

Ah, but it is not common life; no life is that. True there 
are thousands of just such little frame churches in little vil- 
lages all over the land, and filled with just such an assemblage of 
good, bad, and foolish and wise, but each life is uncommon, 
each in itself a perfect unity; each, like the varnished leaves 
of the mulberry-tree, in some way differing from all the rest. 
Shall we not enter the low, narrow door, and take one of those 
rude, uncushioned benches, in our search for the heroic ? 

" Look for the heroic in a village church ? " do you ask ? 
There, you needn't trouble yourself to curl your lip. These 
plain, honest people would never understand it. They are not 
educated in the expression of lips, such as the " curl haughty/' 
" curl supercilious," etc., etc. 

They would say : " Are we not in the image of God ? You 
are not more ; we do not understand you ; we, being made in so 
lofty a model, have no superiors, excepting our great Model." 
Well, among this people we shall find the heroic; and not here 
only, but in every little church in the land, we shall find — 
rough forms, inclosing rarest minds and hearts. Eirst look at 
the clergyman, you can just see his small bald head, fringed 
with sandy hair, resembling nothing so much as an unripe sun- 
flower, divested of its ends, and still retaining its whorl of yellow 
petals, peering above the tall old-fashioned pulpit. See, he gives 
a little smile of recognition toward the purple lilacs nodding in 
at the open window, and a grateful glance toward the sunshine, 
lying so goldenly on the new pine flooring ; you can see the face 
worn thin by suffering, and hear the monotonous, unmusical 
voice, and know that his sermon is as uninteresting as his ap- 
pearance. Would you think that man a hero? Would you 
ever imagine that his head should be surmounted with a halo 
of glory instead of that sandy hair ? Perhaps not and yet, when 
we are " judged according to righteous judgment," that man 
will surely stand in a place of honor. Let me tell you, he was 
born poor; the son of a widow — labored through a toilsome 
boyhood, knowing what it was to be hungry, and ignorant of 
ever experiencing the delights of plenty — went humbly through 
college as a charity-scholar, and finally graduated, prepared for 
the ministry. Now, supposing, that all the bitter, petty trials 
of his young life, borne gently and patiently, that he might the 



152 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

better " fight the good fight," have not made of him a hero, let 
me give you the one greatest act of heroism. 

At this time a relative, very distant, died, leaving him heir 
to a large fortune. Then for a few months our minister enjoyed 
plenty. He bought and furnished a beautiful residence, and in- 
stalled his mother as head of the household. He surrounded 
her and himself with beautiful things, rare plants, and articles 
of virtu, all that gratified his fine taste; and besides, he scat- 
tered good things with a lavish hand. None were refused aid 
who were in need, and his days glided by like a rich strain of 
music, sweet and cheering, with no discord; but then came a 
letter from the daughter of this relative, saying that her father 
had disowned her in anger ; that her husband was dead, and her 
children starving, and rightfully the property was hers, though 
not lawfully. 

Poor minister ! he who had so craved luxury, who had found 
a few hours in which he need not fight the dread monster, Pov- 
erty, was now confronted with this Medusa's head ; and, after a 
bitter but silent struggle, he conquered, sold his beautiful pur- 
chase, and restored, penny for penny, the fortune to its rightful 
owner. 

Since then, he has lived on six hundred a year, in that little 
white frame house to the right, which you can see through the 
open door. In this day, when the Lord makes up its jewels, 
shall he not be required ? 

Now look again. Do you see that little woman in black 
sitting in the corner, with a smile of faint sunshine, and a 
tender light in her eyes, like dew upon the brown shell of a 
chestnut? She isn't very handsome, or very remarkable; only 
the village dressmaker could get the poor to look up to her as 
flowers to heaven, and pray in the depths of their hearts, " God 
bless her ! " How she glorifies her labor ! She has loved 
and lost. Before even the clasp which bound her love to her 
outwardly was clasped, her woman's fingers severed the 
links. 

" Though the sweet brow sweat with pain, 
Drops of blood like purple rain. 
And the trembling lips must shrink 
White with anguish as they drink/' 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 153 

Still duty pointed, and she followed. Now for years, from 
her bright girlhood, even till now, she has been the constant 
support and nurse of a mother who for years has never risen 
from her bed. She has a cheering word and smile for all, and 
especially the poor. Gentle always to them, she is Christ-like, 
and many a hard-earned penny is slipped timidly into the hand 
of one more needy than herself. 

Now glance at the tall, thin form which is striding down the 
aisle. Homely, isn't she? And abrupt, and quick, and un- 
civil, and unrefined? Yes, all of them. She can plow a 
furlough with the best of men, and reap and mow, and sow too, 
for that matter. Her hands are large, and rough, and brown, 
and her face looks the shell of a last summer's walnut. 

She works on the farm — does man's work ; but oh, she is a 
goodly tree, since " every tree is known by its fruit " ; and hers, 
though but the work of one woman's head, heart, and hand, will 
reach in widening cycles to Eternity. Ah, yes, and through 
eternity. Three brothers, orphaned in childhood, are in col- 
lege, two of them preparing for the ministry, and one sister is 
teaching now in the far West, educated by the fruits of this 
woman's labor — this diamond in the rough. Every cent has 
been furnished by her industry; and now yonder in that far 
corner of the churchyard do you see that grass-grown grave? 
Over it the village children tie love-knots, and tell how that 
he who lies there loved Miranda, but one night he was caught 
among a gang of robbers, and imprisoned, and how Miranda re- 
leased him, staying in his place ; but that he was followed and 
shot in their attempts to capture him — some say accidentally 
— and the finger of scorn was pointed at Miranda. Poor girl. 
Through it all she never faltered in her duty, though her heart 
was broken. What wonder if she is hard, and cold, and stern, 
while that grave lies before her constantly, though she never 
looks toward it ? There is one made deep in her heart forever. 
Under the ice, the clear, quiet waters of deep rivers glide, all 
the warmer for the covering. 

Will you say again that you cannot find the heroic many scat- 
tered through the world like flowers ? But, see, the little clergy- 
man has ceased his sermon, and the congregation are slowly 
winding down the narrow aisle, and out into the sweet air; 



154 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

so will you and I, reader, though we have been studying the 
sweetest of Nature's works — noble, heroic hearts. 

May 13, 1865. For the New York Mercury. 



CHIBBY, THE CONTRABAND; 

OR 

The Carolinian Brothers 

The story which I here relate came about in this manner. 
A few friends were spending the evening in our little parlor 
not long since, and among them a lady and gentleman who had 
fled from the South upon the breaking out of the Rebellion. 
They were staunch Unionists, and had many incidents of their 
escape to narrate which were very interesting, being told with 
spirit and truth. The gentleman had also served as an officer 
in one of our regiments for a short time and his stories of camp 
life were not the least fascinating which were told. To these 
we listened unweariedly and probably should have continued to 
do so all evening had it not been that our little sister Zelia, 
wearying of the conversation as children will, softly commenced 
a poem to herself. 

" What is that, Zelia ? " asked one of the guests. 

" Go on, dear," pleaded a second. 

" A poem by ma belle Zelia ! " playfully announced a third. 

And the child blushing very much at being so unexpectedly 
thrust into notice, and trying to hide her pretty face beneath her 
blushes, repeated in her sweet, clear voice : 

" Invisible finger of air, 
Just lifted the curtain's fold, 
Just rippled the calm of her golden hair, 
Beautiful, treacherous gold. 

And she stood like the thought of a sculptor, carved 
In marble, snowy and cold ; 
But her pure sweet look was as foul a lie 
As ever a woman told." 

" I never knew but one woman who could answer to that 
description," said the Southern lady, " and she owned the plan- 



EARLY PKOSE WOEKS 155 

tation adjoining ours in North Carolina. She was the cruelest 
and haughtiest woman I ever saw." 

" And the handsomest/' declared the husband. 

" What became of her, please ? " asked little Zelia. Where- 
upon the whole party like a crowd of curious children, clamored 
for the story, and the lady said : " I cannot tell what became 
of her, for I do not know, but I can give you the story of her 
slave Chibby until he left the plantation; and, oddly enough, 
since he has entered the army my husband has learned the 
finale." 

So she gave us the facts very concisely, and even the child 
Zelia's bright eyes lost none of their brilliancy during its re- 
lation ; and later, pleasing half the child and half myself, I took 
the thread and clothed it lightly here in the form I present it ! 

Framed in by the graceful drooping curtains, motionless save 
as the coy breeze touched her playfully, rustling the folds of her 
dress and breaking the burnished gold of her hair into tiny waves 
and billows, as though it were bathing in a golden sea and tossing 
the yellow sprays about it, tall and stately, and graceful, stood 
the mistress of LaHarpe. She was past the flush and beauty 
of youth, but was still very handsome; from the arch of her 
slender foot to the crown of her royal head; from her taper 
fingers rosy tipped, to the smoothest braid of her yellow hair, 
she was fine looking. Nature and art had conspired to make 
her a queen, and they had succeeded. She was utterly non- 
impassioned, or rather non-impulsive ; for after all, it is these 
still, calm women who, in their hearts, are most passioned. 
They are like the smooth, silent sheet of water directly beneath 
Niagara Falls. The boiling billows sink to such a depth 
that they fail to ripple the glassy surface. Above, all is peace- 
ful quietude ; beneath all is angry passion. 

Standing there by the window that calm afternoon, listening 
apparently to the pleasant chatter of a robin who was spending 
the honeymoon with his bride in a cedar near by, and who talked 
love-nonsense most tirelessly while she built the nest — as it is 
the custom of some human lover-husbands, if the truth were told 
— she did not appear cruel or unkind, and had Colonel Harper, 
her gallant husband, seen her then, he would have declared, with 
his inimitable bow and perfect admiration of his young wife: 



156 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" She is a very fine woman, indeed ! I do think she is cer- 
tainly the finest woman I ever saw ! " 

And so she certainly was, viewed from his standpoint. A 
loving mother to their only son, a stylish, agreeable wife, but a 
most bigoted Chnrch-woman, and a most infamous mistress. 
She forgot the robin, if she had thought of him at all, when 
the scene without was slightly varied by the sudden appearance 
of two persons upon the grassy terrace. 

One was a gentleman's son, tall and slender, with yellow 
curls and blue cold eyes, very like the lady observing him from 
the window, so very like her that you would have known him 
for her son. The other was a young man of twenty-five, tall 
and dark, and singularly handsome, with a scornful curl upon 
his haughty lip, as though he lived in a state of perpetual con- 
tempt for the life he lived, and for himself for living it. He 
held now two fierce dogs by a chain, one of which was limping 
somewhat, and whining in his master's face. The boy, at least 
ten years his junior, stood carelessly striking his glossy boot with 
his riding-whip, and angrily berating his slave. From the room 
the lady saw that her fair son was losing temper, but she smiled 
a little, saying softly to herself: " Henry has fine spirit. He 
can do what I have failed, with that fellow," She bent nearer 
towards the window, and his voice smote her ear. 

" You hurt him yourself, you lazy brute ! You know you did, 
and I'll not let you off, so mind that ! " 

" I did not hurt him, mas'r," was the firm response. " I told 
you Jupe threw at a chicken, and the stone shied, striking 
Ponto." 

" Jupe says he didn't," returned the boy. " I told you to 
see to them, and in your infernal temper, you've ruined that dog 
for a month. I'll teach you better, you black scoundrel ! Take 
that — and that! " 

The whip left its playful switching of his glossy boot, and 
fell cruelly again and again upon the shoulders of the slave. 
He stood with head erect, and flashing eyes, perfectly motion- 
less. Again and again fell the merciless blows, eliciting no cry 
from the sufferer's lips, nor even a motion to avoid the lash. 
Once, when the whip cut its crimson track across his cheek, he 
shuddered, but that was air the consciousness he gave. 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 157 

The lady at the window watched this scene with coldly cruel 
eyes, never making a motion to interrupt it, but seeming to 
derive a quiet satisfaction therefrom; but it had another ob- 
server. 

From his library window, Colonel Harper heard the angry 
words and blows. He left his books, and stepping through the 
window to the broad piazza, viewed the scene with the most in- 
tense displeasure, letting his eyes rest admiringly upon the 
handsome Stoic, who stood erect and stately under the stinging 
chastisement. 

" Henry ! " he shouted sternly, " what are you about there ? 
Come here, both of you." 

Henry's whip fell, and he sauntered slowly to the piazza, 
followed by the slave, leading the dogs, and not deigning to wipe 
the blood from his face. 

" What's all this about, Henry ? " asked the gentleman of his 
son. 

Harry lifted his fair face with the air of a spoiled boy, and 
answered, " Why, you see, sir, the black scoundrel lamed my 
dog, and then denied it, and I was teaching him better — that 
is all." 

" Your father, Henry," returned the gentleman in mild 
reproof, " never struck a slave in his life." 

" Ah, sir," responded the boy, " but they are none the bet- 
ter for that. Mama don't believe in that mode of governing." 

" Your mama, Henry, was a Northern lady, and knows but 
little of the best ways to control a slave ; but we will not discuss 
the subject. What did you do, Chibby ? " 

" The black scoundrel knows well enough," interrupted 
Henry. The " black scoundrel," probably, because he consid- 
ered the word of a " scoundrel " of no avail whatever, held his 
peace, and offered no word in his own defense. 

As they stood together — the gallant, haughty master of La- 
Harpe and the poor slave boy, whose cheek was yet bleeding 
from a degrading chastisement — one could not fail to note the 
resemblance between them. There was the same grace of figure, 
the same noble cast of features, and the same haughty curl rest- 
ing upon the lip of master and slave. Nature had set the seal 
of relationship upon their faces, which man would not ac- 



158 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

knowledge. In her great book those two were written, not master 
and slave, but father and son, and the record could not by the 
art of any man be blotted out, so long as those two faces yet 
remained. Perhaps it was this thought that softened Col. 
Harper's tone and eye, as he spoke to the boy ; perhaps it was 
the lad's heroic stoicism, or it may have been that in his heart 
of hearts this proud man, owner of a hundred slaves, softened by 
the " tender grace of a day that is dead," for the mother's sake, 
was gentle to the son. 

" What have you to say, Chibby ? " 

" Nothing," was the reply. 

" Nothing ? " repeated the gentleman. " Why, Chib, you 
surely didn't lame your master's dog on purpose. How did you 
do it, or did you do it at all ? " 

" I told you, father, he did do it," broke in Henry's impatient 
voice. " You wouldn't take the slave's word against mine, 
sir, I hope." 

" Be quiet, Henry. Chib, how did you do it ? " 

" Will you believe me, sir, if I tell you ? " There was such 
a pleading, pitiable look in the questioner's dark eyes; such an 
earnest beseeching in his low questioning, that Colonel Harper 
replied instantly and kindly: 

" Yes, Chibby, for I know you will not tell me an untruth." 

" No, Mas'r, I wouldn't ; but Mas'r Henry would not believe 
me, and I told him the truth. When I was feeding the dogs, a 
chicken tried to eat with them. Jupe threw a stone at the 
chicken, but it shied and hit the dog, and that's the truth, sir." 

" I believe you, Chib, and I am sorry for what has happened. 
Go, now, wash that blood from your face. Henry, you were 
very wrong — do not be so hasty again. Chib, my boy, here 
is my hand. Be always honest and true." 

The Colonel trembled when the timid hand of Chib touched 
his, then turned away, without addressing Henry again ; passed 
into his library, and having closed the door, threw himself upon 
the lounge and hid his face in his hands. 

Colonel Harper was not an old man, but his hair was per- 
fectly white, and there were lines about his face which told of 
sorrow and of trials. He had not gathered the roses of life and 
escaped the Sting of the bees hidden in their hearts. His mat- 



EAKLY PKOSE WOKKS 159 

ter-of-fact life had a little romance clinging to it, like ivy to a 
sturdy, rugged tree. 

Seven and twenty years before, Colonel Harper had returned 
from college, the gayest, handsomest, noblest youth that ever 
was the idol of a fond old father or the admiration of a host 
of friends. He was generous, manly and impulsive, strong in 
his principles and immovable. A Northern college had in no 
degree altered his views of Southern life, and he returned to his 
old home as he had left it, a strong advocate for slavery. As he 
neared his home, the servants, dressed in their holiday attire, 
went to welcome him ; ranged on either side of the carriage-way, 
with bared heads, they stood, forming a continual line of cheer- 
ful, careless faces, from the white haired men and decrepit old 
women, to the little toddling children, who joined their infant 
voices in the hearty " God bless young mas'r " which burst from 
the crowd. 

The young man, always thoughtful and kind, bowed graciously 
as the carriage passed on, and when he sprang out at the broad 
piazza, followed by his father, the negroes crowded around him, 
calling out hearty welcomes and blessings on " young mas'r 
George." George shook hands with them, as they came about 
him, one after another, inquiring about this one's rheumatism 
and that one's palsy ; having a kind word and a cheerful smile 
for all, and binding every heart to his own by the tender tie of 
love. Indeed, he had not been home a week before every heart 
on his father's plantation had learned to love " Young mas'r 
George." 

Among the sea of dark faces which welcomed him home, 
George Harper saw one which he did not remember at all, the 
beautiful, languid face of a young quadroon girl, and it shone 
upon him like Venus in a cloudy sky. He had never before seen 
such tender, passionate beauty. It was dark and fiery, yet soft 
and gentle, like nothing so much as the radiant creation of some 
rare old artist, looking out from a time-darkened canvas. Clear 
and dark, as if illumined by some inner light, this face shone 
upon George Harper, and enchained him. He hurried from the 
eagerly offered hands of the other servants, and made his way 
at once to the beautiful face. 

" Who is this, Mauma % " he asked of an old negress, who 



160 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

had been laughing and crying in hysterical joy ever since his 
arrival. 

" Ki, don't you know, Mas'r George ? Hain't forgot de lit- 
tle t'ing ye used to hab sit on the piazza and sing for ye. Hat's 
Ninnie." 

" Ninnie," ejaculated George, offering his hand at once. 
" Why, Ninnie, you were such a little creature when you used 
to sing me to sleep with that marvelous child-like voice. Can 
you sing yet, J^innie ? " 

How good it was of him to remember her; how noble and 
thoughtful! Minnie's heart beat tumultously. 

" See," she smiled, " I can sing for you, Mas'r." 

How wonderfully that smile illumined her face. George 
thought instantly of the sunshine striking through rosy stalactites. 

This scene passed before the Colonel, lying on the lounge, 
with his face in his hands. Then, like the moving picture 
of a panorama, it slowly gave place to another. How close it 
seemed to him ; that delightful summer evening, when the scar^ 
let honeysuckles breathed out their perfumes on the trellises; 
when the roses coyly opened their crimson hearts for the coming 
dew, and the whip-poor-will sang its mournful song. He was 
lying in his room with the low windows open, and Ninnie, sit- 
ting on the piazza, singing her evening song. As her sweet rich 
voice floated in on the still, perfumed air, George Harper 
smiled as though the notes caressed him like the touch of a 
loving hand. How distinctly he saw this quiet scene over 
again to-night, as though he were living it all over; how at his 
call her sweet song ceased, and she came in at the low French 
window, every motion full of languid Southern grace, and every 
feature aglow with her great love for him, her master, and he, 
the haughty owner of broad acres and a hundred slaves, the last 
of a noble family, was in love with the poor quadroon, whose 
only wealth was her rare beauty. She had stolen into his heart 
unawares, and rested there like a tired bird. How beautiful she 
was in her startled, timid grace, as she stood before him, listen- 
ing to the low tones of his voice. Ah, so long as life lasted he 
could never forget her kneeling at his feet, folding her arms 
upon the lounge, and laying her graceful head upon them, never 
lifting her face as she answered him : 



EAELY PROSE WOBKS 161 

" Mas'r George, I belong to you, heart, and soul, and body. 
Sometime you will remember this, and know that I loved you 
even unto death." 

She was gone from his side. There was no more singing that 
night, and the honey-suckles, and roses, and whip-poor-wills had 
it all their own way. 

How the scenes crowd upon one another, as though some in- 
visible hand changed them quickly. This is the chamber of 
death, and George Harper's face pales as he thinks of it. 
Ninnie, lying with white face and trembling lips, withering 
like a tender flower under the frost touch of death. She had 
sent for George, and now for a moment all caste is forgotten. 
She clasps her hands about his neck as he bends over her, draws 
his face down to her own, and kisses it. Then her soft cheek 
sinks to his shoulder. She smiles an ineffably happy smile, and 
so dies. How perfectly he remembered her words then ! She 
had " loved him even unto death. 7 ' What wonder, if for her 
child and his — left motherless before it could know a mother — 
there was a world of tenderness and kindness in his inmost 
heart ? 

Ten years after Colonel Harper married a young wife, and 
they had one son, Henry, but the boy who looked at him with 
Ninnie's eyes and spoke to him with Ninnie's voice, was dearer 
to him than the son who would inherit all his wealth. His 
quick Southern nature could not assimilate nor understand the 
cooler temperaments of his wife and son, though, with his chiv- 
alrous spirit which had descended to him with the ancestral 
acres and the ancestral sword, he revered and honored his 
wife, really considering her " the finest woman in the world." 

But, leaving Colonel Harper's dream, and Colonel Harper's 
little romance, we return to the evening when Mrs. Harper 
stood at the window of her parlor. The cool, sweet day had 
gone to rest; the lover-robin, in the midst of his love song, 
fell asleep beside his bride, tucking his wise little head in his 
feathery night-cap, and discreetly drawing his feet under the 
clothes. The whip-poor-will made its complaining moan in 
the old cedar, and the katy-dids tuned their hoarse little in- 
struments in reply. The flowers shut their bright eyes for a 
little slumber, whereupon the sky fell to blossoming and spread 



162 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

out an azure field, sprinkled with golden stars for buttercups; 
and the great sun went down into the ocean to take his evening 
bath, probably considering — as is the habit of great folks — 
that he would be the better appreciated for a brief absence. 

At LaHarpe, the cold, fair lady left the window, as she had 
gone to it, ennuied. She had seen night come so often, after 
all it was the same thing over and over. She supposed the 
moon and the stars were always the same ones, kept through the 
day and exhibited at night, like the paraphernalia of the stage ; 
and if the clouds were not the same ones, what difference did 
it make, since they all looked alike ? The lady's maid tapped at 
the door to know " If missis would have her hair dressed ? " 

" No, missis would not have her hair dressed," and the maid 
departed. 

Then the lady descended to the library. The door was closed. 
She opened it and entered. Her husband was lying still upon 
the lounge, his face hidden in his hands. On the table near by 
were scattered various papers. He had probably been writing, 
as the pen was still wet with ink. 

" Are you ill, Colonel Harper ? " asked the lady in her 
measured, polite tone. There was no answer. She advanced 
to his side, and slightly touched his arm. " Colonel Harper, 
tea will be ready in a few moments. Had you better not get 
up?" 

When had ever the polite, chivalrous gentleman failed to an- 
swer his young wife before? When had a suggestion of hers 
been disregarded ? Yet now he was speechless. His hand, at 
her touch, fell at his side, an inert thing, revealing a very pale 
face, and set, unconscious eyes. 

She understood it all now — that settled gaze, those lax mus- 
cles, his inability to move. Colonel Harper was paralyzed. 

The lady was never more composed in her very composed 
life. She rang the bell, and ordered one servant to go for the 
physician. Others she commanded, in a tone that rebuked their 
crying, to carry their master to his room. 

Henry came in, nervously frightened, but she sent him to the 
tea-table, saying that she would join him in a few moments, 
which she did, leaving her husband comfortably lying in his 
own bed, tended by " Mauma " and Chibby. 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 163 

The latter, having occasion to return to the library for a fa- 
vorite pillow of his master's, ran down, possessed himself of 
the article, and was leaving the room, when his name, written 
upon a paper, caught his eye. He raised the paper, and led by 
curiosity, read it. It was written brokenly and in fragments, 
as though the mind of the writer, weakened by disease, had col- 
lected all its faculties for this one action before it gave way. 
The note read: 

" Ninnie was my first and last love. Her memory is sweet 
to me. She loved me ' even unto death.' Chib must be free. 
I demand it of you all. He is Ninnie's son — looks like her. 
I desire to free him and will to-morrow. Geor." 

Only those four letters of his name, and the tired hand had 
lost its cunning, the weary mind its activity. 

Chib replaced the paper tremblingly, and went again to his 
master's room. 

The doctor came and gave so little hope of the Colonel's re- 
covery that none of the family retired. 

Toward morning the sick man began to rally. His eyes 
roved from one object to another as though in search of some- 
thing. " He wants something," said the physician, as the sick 
man's eyes settled on Chib's mournful face — " What is it ? " 

" Nothing," said Mrs. Harper, coldly, " he can want nothing 
of the boy." 

But Chib understood that silent appeal. 

" He used to hear me sing," he said, " that is what he wants. 
Let me try, please." 

" Go on," said the doctor, and Chib's sweet, rich voice rose 
tremblingly through the tears, and flooded the apartment. It 
was an old, favorite hymn which he sang, and as the refrain 
rose and softly fell like the waves in a sea of melody, the dying 
man smiled, softly closed his eyes and fell asleep. As the stars 
went out from the sky and their light from out the sea, so 
calmly and gradually Colonel Harper's soul left its prison-house. 

By and by the day dawned, the sun came out, the robins 
began their nest again, and the day was very like the other days 
gone before ; but at LaHarpe a hundred hearts were filled with 
grief and terror, and a hundred voices joined in wailing. 

After the funeral, Mrs. Harper became sole manager and 



164 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

director on the plantation, and a very severe one she proved. 

Henry, acting on his own individual instincts, " could whale 
a nigger and break him in with the best of 'em," as he often 
elegantly remarked to his mother, after giving her a specimen 
of his talents in that direction with Chib. as a victim. 

" You should use more refined expressions, my son," would 
be her sole comment. " Your late father would never permit 
himself to use such language." 

" I tell you, mother, it's deuced hard to be on the outlook for 
fine words, so, when you want to talk ; and the fact of the mat- 
ter is, that Colonel Harper's son is able to talk as he has a mind 
to ; " which he generally did. 

Chibby, in the agony of his grief, had almost forgotten the 
existence of the paper which he had read, until the first shock 
began to wear off. Then, he repaired to the library, but not a 
paper was to be seen. Mrs. Harper had been there before him. 
Had he seen her as she tore the paper into a dozen fragments, in 
her calm jealousy — so calm, but oh ! so fierce — burning each 
separate fragment, and watching them shrivel in the blaze, with 
cruel eyes, as though she would have joyed to see the hand which 
penned them shriveling in their place, Chibby would never have 
dared to stake his future comfort on the desperate throw he did. 

Henry resolutely refused to return to school at the close of 
the vacation, declaring that " it was deuced hard for a fellow 
turning fifteen to be sent to school like a child." 

He ruled the house as he generally did ; rode fast horses ; kept 
fast hounds, and " broke in " fast negroes, to the full satisfac- 
tion of his lively and amiable disposition. 

Poor Chib was the attendant of this young gentleman, and 
being really vexatious to a " fellow " of Henry's stamp, was 
perpetually incurring humiliating punishments, which stung 
his proud soul to the quick, and sent the Harper blood in a boil- 
ing flood through his veins. He had more of that than of his 
patient, loving mother's, and could not so well brook insults. 
He was the constant object of Henry's wrath and anathemas, 
boots, brushes, et cetera, were hurled at him a dozen times a 
day ; but as these ebullitions made not the slightest difference in 
Chib's stoical actions, they but exasperated the young master the 
more. " You're mine," he said on one of these occasions, 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 166 

through his clenched teeth, " mine, body and soul, and by the 
Lord, sir, I'll burn you alive, if you don't mend your ways." 

" You don't dare," said Chib, speaking impulsively and 
thoughtlessly in his hot anger, " I'll run away." 

" You will, will you ? " cried Henry, in his insulting tone ; 
" you will ! Well I'm glad you've given me warning. I'll pre- 
vent that, my fine young fellow, in short order. You'll be dead 
before you ever get from under my thumb." 

Aware of his mistake, too late for its retraction, Chibby made 
his resolve. For him to resolve was to act. He had been taught 
reading by Colonel Harper, that he might commit favorite songs 
for his master's pleasure, and besides, had succeeded in smug- 
gling the papers frequently enough for him to understand the 
general situation of the adverse armies. He knew that escape 
would be almost impossible, as the armies had not yet pene- 
trated to the interior of the States. He would, therefore, tell his 
mistress of the paper he had read, and plead for his freedom. 
Accordingly, that evening he tapped timidly at his mistress' par- 
lor door. Mrs. Harper raised her eyes slightly, and resumed 
her reading. 

" Please, missis," he ventured. 

Perhaps she was gracious to-night; perhaps it pleased her 
fancy to have that handsome face opposite her own with that 
pleading look. At all events, she raised her eyes to his face 
in her calm, cold way, and said, " Well." 

It was very hard to go on with that dry, sharp word cutting 
his sentences, but he again began, and went on : 

" You know, missis, the night mas'r was taken sick, I waited 
on him. Well, I went down to the library for his pillow — he 
always liked that pillow best — " 

" Go back to your subject," commenced the lady. 

The slave bowed and went on : " There was a lamp by the 
table, and some papers by it." 

" Well ? " This time full of impatience and inquiry. 

The slave lowered his voice and continued : " I never did 
so mean an act before, but I couldn't help this, missis, no more 
than I could help breathing." 

The lady's slender foot came down hard upon the carpet. 
" Will you go on ? " she commanded under her breath. 



166 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" Yes, Missis, I saw my name on one of the papers, I took it 
up and read it, and the ink was not dry on it. It was the last 
thing Mas'r ever wrote. It said that he loved my mother, and 
that I was to be free — and oh, dear ! Missis, some one has 
taken the paper from the table, but I'll swear that it read just 
so." 

Mrs. Harper had flushed and paled during the relation, but 
now she spoke in her usual calm, icy tone : " What does all this 
folly amount to ? " 

Chibby hesitated. He did not know how to face the haughty 
lady, who designated his strongest claim for the favor he was 
going to ask, as " folly," but he manfully choked back the great 
sobs which were rising in his throat and pleaded : 

" Oh, Missis, won't you give me what Mas'r promised ? 
Please, please — my freedom. The paper said I was to be 
free." 

The lady touched her bell and said to the maid who instantly 
replied : " Send Smith to me." Then she again turned to 
Chibby : " This story is a very strange one," said she, " and I 
cannot credit it at all. Even if it were true (which I doubt) 
you merit severe punishment for meddling with your Master's 
papers. You have either been guilty of telling your mistress a 
falsehood, or of reading papers which you had no right to 
touch." 

" Smith, Missis," interrupted the maid, as a short, stout, 
cruel-faced man entered the room, bowing. 

" Smith, you will take Chib and give him twenty lashes for 
falsehood." 

The poor octoroon recoiled with a low, bitter cry : " O, no, 
Missis, not that ! On my knees I pray you, not that ! " 

Vain was that earnest, pleading prayer. As well might he 
plead to that marble Flora, standing near. His mistress only 
waved her white hand and repeated: 

" You hear me, Smith. Let the people know that it was for 
falsehood. It will be an example for them." 

With his proud heart crushed and broken, Chib followed 
the insolent overseer from the room. An hour after Henry 
repeated the threat of running away, and proposed as a safe- 
guard that Chib be branded. The day following while he was 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 167 

jet suffering from those cruel strokes, he was branded on the 
palm of his hand with the fiery letters " L. H." and the iron 
entered his soul. 

" I will not bear this from my younger brother," Chib said 
again and again between clenched teeth. " I will not be treated 
like a dog by him. He will madden me until I forget myself 
and kill him, as I surely will ; " and he turned the thought over 
and over in his angry heart, until it was fixed there as in- 
credibly as the letters on his hand. 

Thinking these thoughts Chib became unmanageable. He 
was quick to resent a blow, quick to disobey a command, and so 
it came he was no stranger to the lash, to confinement and to 
hunger. Henry was his sole master. Beyond him there was 
no appeal, and his spirit could ill brook the insolent temper of 
the slave. Poor Chib learned now of the terrors of slavery. 
His master's dogs were far better cared for than he was, the 
elder brother. In all the broad world there was no loving hand 
to lift him above his grosser self, to teach him patience under 
his afflictions and to look to a higher help than that of man. He 
grew sullen and insolent, and finally flatly refused obedience 
to his master's command. 

Among the slaves there was one who had stood Chib's firm 
friend in all his troubles. He had smuggled food to him when 
he was confined, and had often stolen to the barn at midnight 
to wash his wounds and bind them for him. There is little 
that one slave can do for another, but that little Jim did, time 
and again, for Chibby. 

Henry, knowing somewhat of the bond between them, for some 
slight misdemeanor, commanded Chib to flog Jim, and Chib, 
setting his teeth together, said firmly : 

" Never, though you kill me, Mas'r." 

With a muttered oath, Henry seized the whip and laid it over 
Chib's shoulders, but the latter was immovable. He would 
have died and made no sign. 

" Flog me, Chib," pitifully begged Jim. " Do — ye can, an' 
dey'll kill ye if ye don't ! " But Chib did not hear him. 

Henry tossed the whip to Smith and commanded, " Break 
them in, Smith," and then walked away, whistling to cool his 
anger. 



168 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

For many days after this, Chib was unable to resume his du- 
ties ; but when at last he did, he was no longer the handsome, 
high-spirited man, but a quiet, broken-down slave. ~No temp- 
tations could force from him an angry word, no blows produce 
the slightest perceptible impression on him. He went about 
meekly, doing his work, and was, as Henry exultingly declared 
to his mother, " the best broke creature in the place." To a 
more practised eye, this perfect metamorphosis of the octoroon's 
nature and disposition would have been something more to 
be feared than enjoyed. There was a baleful glitter of his 
eye, occasionally, which boded no good to his tormentors. 

Mrs. Harper was particularly irritating, in her lady-like, icy 
manner, and her despotic rule. Chib bore it, as he did 
everything else, stoically, but once or twice he raised his hand, 
and his lips moved as though he were calling down anathemas 
upon her graceful head. As the days passed and Chib retained 
his meek, obedient habits, Mrs. Harper and Henry relaxed their 
vigilance somewhat, and he was free to put in operation his long 
cherished plan. 

One evening toward the last of October, while Mrs. Harper 
was sitting by her lamp, reading, preparatory to retiring for 
the night, she was suddenly grasped, her head bent back, and a 
gag inserted in her mouth ; her hands were quickly seized, and 
stoutly tied to the chair on which she sat. In this uncom- 
fortable position, outcry or motion was impossible ; but her cap- 
tor was evidently desirous of gratifying her very natural 
curiosity. He stepped from behind her and contemptuously 
looked at her, bound and helpless, lifting to her astonished 
eyes the handsome face of Chibby. 

" I could not go," he said at length, " without in some measure 
allowing you to suffer what you inflict upon others. By morn- 
ing you will probably be rather weary, but upon the whole you 
get off rather easily. I leave you my blessing, remembering 
you are constantly in my prayers, so long as I may live. By 
this branded hand " — lifting the scarred member and speaking 
in a low concentrated voice that made his hearer shudder — " by 
the scars upon my back, by the weary, weary hours of my pun- 
ishment, and by all the laws of justice, may God deal with you 
according to your deserts." 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 169 

The burning black eyes left her face; the speaker made an 
ironical bow, and Mrs. Harper, bound and gagged, kept silent 
watch in the solitude of her chamber. 

It had been a rainy, disagreeable day, and a wet November 
breeze was chilling all the hosts of our encamped army; but 
little cared they for rain or wind. Plymouth had added its 
name to the glorious record of Union victories, and the men 
were in high spirits. Along the narrow streets formed by tents 
on either side, the blue-coats were scattered plentifully, and 
singing and shouting and amusements were the order of the 
hour. Here a crowd was collected about a smooth hickory pole, 
which one after another essayed to climb, arrived midway to- 
ward the top, and just as surely unable to advance, slid down, 
amid the laughter and good-natured cheers of his comrades; 
then another crowd were initiating some raw recruits into the 
" Sons of Malta " order, by means of a blind, a wet blanket and 
canteen of water. In another part of the encampment, by a 
huge fire, the boys were busy telling stories and cracking jokes, 
spreading their damp clothes to the genial warmth, and utterly 
regardless of the misty rain still falling. 

All these amusements gave way to a general stare of curiosity 
as the guards, who had been on picket duty, entered the narrow 
little street, bringing between them a young man with great 
black eyes and thin, gaunt face. He staggered from weakness, 
and sank wearily to a seat by the fire, which one of the boys 
politely offered him. 

" I'll get you something to eat," said one of the guards ; " you 
look as lean as a wolf. He's a contraband," further explained 
the guards to the soldiers, " came in this afternoon ; has been 
eating ever since, and is as hungry as a bear now, poor fellow ! " 

Poor fellow, indeed! He ate voraciously all they brought 
him, and then looked wistfully for more, spreading his thin, 
scarred hands to the flames, and beginning to warm into the 
semblance of humanity. 

" He is branded — a slave," whispered one soldier to an- 
other. 

The young man heard the whisper, looked steadily at the 
branded hand for a moment then said slowly : " Yes, a slave, 



170 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

I have known hunger and cold, and labor; been beaten like a 
dog, and branded like a felon. I have lain night after night 
in agony, without so much as a cup of cold water to cool 
my lips. I am not twenty-six yet, but I have known life to 
be a curse to me. It is a little better now. It cursed my 
mother, and her mother before her. Why should it not curse 
me?" 

The crowd about the smooth pole deferred their trial of 
skill, and the initiators of the " Sons of Malta order," declaring 
their recruits initiated fully, all gathered around the crowd 
at the fires. 

" Let's hear your story," — " Come — tell your tale," — 
" Hurry up, my boy," anoT such requests and commands, greeted 
the newcomer, so that he seemed utterly at a loss where to 
begin. 

" What's your name ? Tell us that," asked a small boy, in 
a great coat. 

" Chib," was the reply. 

" He's wet to the skin," cried a third. " I've an old suit 
you may have, if you'll come to my tent." 

Chib shook his head. " Mine will soon dry. I'm used to 
it, anyhow. It don't make any sort of difference. I've slept 
in the dry est corners of the swamp, and waded up to my waist 
in water, before now. I'm used to it." 

" Your story — your story," called out impatient voices, and 
Chib, beginning, told all in a few words all I have told ; then, 
breaking off silently, he turned his face to the fire, as though 
he had forgotten himself and his surroundings. 

" How did you get off ? Go on," urged an impatient voice. 

Chib raised his fine dark eyes and continued. " That was 
the best part of my life. After that I was Mas'r Henry's slave ; 
I was beaten, and kicked and cuffed, and being high-strung, I 
would break out now and then, although it made it the worse 
for me. Mas'r wanted me to flog a friend — the best one I 
had — and when I wouldn't, he had me flogged so bad that it 
was near a week before I could rise from the barn floor. The 
poor men used to feed me in the night, there. At last, as I was 
about my work, I made up my mind to escape. I was very 
meek and obedient, and Mas'r Henry said I was ' broke in'; 



EAELY PKOSE WORKS 171 

but when lie least expected it, I made off, leaving mistress 
my hearty blessing." Here a humorous twinkle in Chibby's 
eyes belied the words. " I knew the Yankee army was some- 
where hereabouts, and I stole Mas'r Henry's papers often 
enough to get the run. Well, I ran, but before I had many 
hours' start some of them informed on me, and the overseer, 
with the niggers and the dogs, were after me." The octoroon 
rose in his excitement, and stood towering over his listeners, 
his dark, passionate features glowing in the ruddy firelight. 
So perfectly quiet were his auditors, that you could have heard 
a pin drop. 

" Yes," he said, in a low, intense voice of deep excitement, 
" I was tracked with hounds like 'a brute, and I could hear 
their sharp yelps, and cries of the human devils, as they gained 
on me. The very dogs that I had fed since they were little pups, 
now were barking and whining for my heart's blood. I tell 
you, it was hard! All the demon in my nature rose when I 
saw them coming. I took refuge in a kind of marsh that I 
knew well. In the center of it, under the tall grass and weeds, 
I had once placed a kind of raft, and found that it was drier 
there than elsewhere." 

" As the dogs brought on the yelling hunters, I took to this 
swamp. I was armed with Mas'r George's pistol, and a long 
bowie knife, and as the dogs came nearer and nearer, I stood 
at bay with a drawn knife. One of the dogs, leaping lightly 
through the damp grass, made a spring at my throat. I plunged 
the knife into his throat, and he fell backward. Then Ponto, 
my pretty pet, who had always been my chief care, followed. 
On she came, closer and closer, pressing forward in her eager- 
ness to catch the prey; but even then she remembered her old 
master, and crouched down at my feet, licking them with a low 
cry of delight. 

" Another moment, and the cries of the overseer would urge 
her to her duty, and she would forget the hand that fed her. 
I knew well, the oaths and cries of that yelling pack would 
arouse her old instincts. She was crouching at my feet, licking 
the hand that must slay her." 

Poor Chib paused with a great sob, and the soldiers gath- 
ered around him had many of them turned moist eyes from 



172 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

him. Checking the sob as unmanly, but with a voice that 
would falter, the narrator continued : " Poor Ponto ! She 
was the most loving creature. It was the hardest thing I ever 
did, and when she fell from my murderous knife, lifting her 
glazing eyes so reproachfully to mine, I felt as though I were 
a murderer ; but my pursuers were hard upon me. They were 
afraid to venture upon the swamp, and were hesitating. I 
could hear them debating and finally resolving to try it. I 
discharged my pistol at the foremost among them, and sink- 
ing down, crawled on my hands and knees to the raft, where I 
lay in trembling fear, wet and weary. 

" Fortunately for me, a heavy storm was brewing, and it 
was already growing dark. Lightnings began to flash and the 
rain to fall. The whole pack dashed past me so closely I could 
hear the overseer say : ' We'll give him up to-day, but we're 
sure to catch him to-morrow.' 

" All that night I travelled, and laid in hiding the next day. 
I had what food I could find on the way. I was often hungry, 
and often cold, and sometimes was tempted to lie down and 
die ; but I persevered, and after six dreadful days and nights, I 
am here. Mas'r George has 'listed in the Rebel army, and I 
want to 'list in this. I will fight for freedom and justice to 
the last drop of blood." 

Chibby sat down, and for a second no one spoke. Then a 
soldier standing near the boy, proposed " Three cheers for our 
brave recruit ! " and the still air trembled with the shouts as they 
rose and fell, then rose again, like the ebb and flow of a mighty 
tide of sound; and from that hour, when he was welcomed 
with cheers and kindness, the poor slave Chibby was a favorite. 

He enlisted in a colored regiment, and was so bright, and 
daring and intrepid, that he was soon the admiration of the 
officers and the men. Where danger was most imminent, there 
was Chibby; from the foremost lines of battle shone his hand- 
some face, like a star, leading on to victory. He served nobly 
in several engagements. He ever petitioned to be placed in 
the front ranks; and yet his eager eyes ever seemed searching 
the ranks of the enemy for a familiar face, and ever turning 
from such search with a patient look in their depths, as though 
he would " bide his time," 



EAKLY PROSE WORKS 173 

" Chib," questioned his Captain one day, " whom are yon 
looking for ? " 

" Captain, 7 ' returned the boy, " I am looking for a man I 
mean to kill." 

" I look at them all that way," was the reply, and Chibby 
returned to his search. 

Every battlefield, and wounded prisoner were noted by his 
indefatigable eyes, but for a time in vain. 

At last his search was rewarded. A great battle had been 
fought, the rebels had fled, and Chibby, as usual the first in 
daring, led the pursuit. Passing over the bloody field, the white 
face and golden hair of a boy lying like a crushed daisy among 
the bleeding, mangled bodies, caught his eye. 

" We have met at last, Henry Harper ! " he hissed between 
his clenched teeth. " I have sworn to kill you ! " 

The boy opened his blue eyes faintly, and Chibby saw that 
his side was bleeding. He could not deal to this boy the death 
blow. Back to himself came the prayer which he had used as a 
curse to his mistress, " May Cod deal with you according to 
your deserts," and the revengeful light died out of his eyes. 

He bent over the prostrate form and began eagerly staunch- 
ing the blood with his own clothes. 

Henry smiled once and feebly offered his hand, and breathed 
out: 

" Chibby, forgive — forgive." 

Only for a moment he hesitated, and then said : " May God 
forgive you as I do, Mas'r Henry ; " adding softly, " My poor 
young brother, as I forgive you may I be forgiven." 

Closer to the dying boy he bent and took the offered hand, 
holding it in a firm, brotherly clasp, and joyfully catching the 
reflection of his quiet smile in his own noble face. 

What was that whizzing sharply through the air ? Only the 
wings of the Angel of Death, as he passed over the field on his 
terrible mission. Ah ! one of the fatal mistakes so often made 
has borne its fruits. A bullet from a friendly hand has struck 
home to the brain of Chibby, as he bends, and they lie to- 
gether — Master and Man, Brother and Brother — at rest. 

Through the gloomy portals of the grave, the poor slave has 
reached at last eternal freedom; from the harsh severity of 



174 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

an earthly master, he has gone to the tender mercy of a Heav- 
enly One. His noble, tortured soul had burst its prison bars 
at last ! He was free — free — 

" And his lifeless body lay, 

A worn-out fetter, which the soul 
Had broke and thrown away." 

Tuesday, July 4, 1865. 



THE JOKE TURNED 

" Miss Lettie Roping, 

She still is hoping, 
That she'll catch a beau-o-o; 

Wants to get married 

But too long has tarried, 
It can't be, you know-o-o! " 

sang Dick Taylor, impromptu, perched upon Widow Roping's 
gate. He was vociferously cheered by ten or twenty little ras- 
cals as full of mischief as himself; and when Lettie Roping 
took up her work and left the window, with a flushed face, 
they gave a " tiger " with a savage enjoyment more becoming 
to real denizens of the forest than to these "fathers of men." 

I suppose there never was a more audaciously mischievous 
boy than Dick Taylor. He had all the cats and dogs in the 
neighborhood in perpetual fear of him. One old feline, in par- 
ticular, always ran up a tree, and clung there, growling and 
spitting, the moment she caught sight of Dick's hat as he turned 
the street corner. That he eventually would be hanged was 
the best hope Trentown had; that he must grow up before he 
could thus be disposed of was its greatest grief. 

Could Trentown endure until then ? Would there be a pane 
of glass unbroken, a bell-wire whole, a door not dilapidated, a 
dog living, or a cat unmolested at the end of that time ? Tren- 
town remembered the past two years, and feared not. 

That Dick Taylor had some good points I suppose must be 
admitted, since all children are supposed to have some cherubic 
traces left in them until they attain manhood ; but these traits 
Trentown couldn't discover. He was ringleader in every mis- 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 175 

chief, idolized and obeyed by all the village-boys as a master- 
spirit is sure to be, and the greatest little despot living. To 
them he was a king, a genius, a brick. Who but he could 
have composed that witty song of " Lettie Roping " % (They 
thought it was witty.) Who but he could have sung it in so 
clear a voice, and with such comical gestures? And now, as 
he put his hands in his pockets, and doubled himself over them 
in a perfect paroxysm of laughter, every boy of them joined in 
his merriment, though they had no more idea where the joke 
came in than the Emperor of the French. 

" Ha, ha! Ho, ho! " roared Dick. " Ha, ha," echoed his 
worshippers. Suddenly he sprang up, turned a complete som- 
ersault, and alighted on the top rail of the gate on his feet. At 
this proof of agility he was cheered again; but he held up his 
dirty fat little hands, and cried with mock solemnity: 

" Men and brethren — silence there ! It behooves us as 
president of this most august and solemn society to allow no 
time to elapse before carrying into execution an important 
thought which has occurred to us. The audience will therefore 
please adjourn to Funny Hall immediately. " 

At this, shouting and laughing, the whole crew, headed by 
Dick, dashed down the street to Funny Hall. This " Hall " 
was the rendezvous of these choice spirits. It was the loft 
of Dick's father's barn, and had been fitted up according to that 
young man's own ideas of comfort. (Dick's ideas!) Here 
were his pistols, and flags, and tools, and nine-pins — here every- 
thing that the only son of a wealthy foolish father would be 
likely to have. As the boys trooped in, Dick at once assumed 
the easy chair back of the writing-desk, " The gentlemen will 
seat themselves without disorder," he said gravely, frowning 
upon one member who dared to laugh behind his hand. The 
boys crowded in and took such seats as they could find. Then 
Dick remarked, standing on his desk for greater height : 

" Men and brethren, we are here assembled this afternoon to 
consult on the lamentable state of society. As you know, the 
last cat has had her last tooth extracted, the last dog has been 
disposed of. The cholera will be upon us, for longfacedness 
prevails. We must avert this calamity. I have, therefore, to 
consult you upon a fitting sequel to our very tender, and, I 



176 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

may say, becoming serenade to the maiden-lady of Trentown." 

" Go it, old boy ! " " Let's bear ! » " Hurrah ! " " We'll 
stand by you," etc., from different parts of the room. 

Dick bowed, and wiped his eyes on his coat-sleeve. 

" You're fine fellows," he sniffled. " Your affection sub- 
dues me. Men and brethren, I'm touched. My tears gush 
forth. David Ketchum, will you administer the oath of secrecy 
to the brethren here assembled ? " 

David took up a dog-eared spelling book; and, one by one, 
the boys laying their hands upon it, swore themselves to secrecy 
and mutual support. 

" And not peach % " said Dick. 

" And not peach," they swore. 

" JSTow, hark ye, boys ! " said Dick, threateningly, as the 
book was laid down, baring his fat, brawny arm, " is that an 
arm to be walked over ? There's to be no peaching. The first 
fellow that I catch at that business I'll wallop within an inch 
of his life, I will. Now," changing his tone to a softer one, 
" wait ten minutes, boys, if you please." 

Dick sat down at his desk, and indited three notes, then, with 
the paper in his hand, he arose. 

" Dear brethren and fellow-creatures, you must all acknowl- 
edge that it's time the Hoping saw something of matrimony. 
Well, it occurred to me this morning that we'd give her a bird's- 
eye view of it, for it's all she'll ever see, poor thing. (Laugh- 
ter.) You'll acknowledge, too, that George Todd ought to see 
his share. He's forty, if he's a day. We'll let him look, too — 
just a sight, you know. They'll want witnesses. We'll have 
all the hunchbacks in town at the church — four nice witnesses 
they'll be. It's time our much-esteemed Eector had some marry- 
ing to do. We'll give him, at least, the hope of a fee, which 
may turn out to be a feeble hope. (Laughter, and cries of " Go 
to it, old boy! ") Now, boys, I'll read the notes: 

" < Rectory, Nov. 4, 18—. 
" ' Dear Miss Lettie : — You will very much oblige me by 
meeting several of the ladies at the church this evening, at 
seven o'clock, to consult on business of importance. Yours 
truly, " ' Oliver Dale, Eector of St Paul's.' 



EAELY PEOSE WORKS ltt 

" Pass that around, Jim." 

The note was passed from hand to hand. The penmanship 
was very like Mr. Dale's. 

" Now, again, Mr. Dale, you perceive, gentlemen, is fond of 
writing little notes. He has written one precisely similar to 
George Todd, so I will not read that. Slow for the third. 
This, you perceive, is in Mr. Todd's well-known masculine round 
hand." (A perfect shout of laughter; for Mr. Todd wrote a 
little cramped hand very like a young schoolgirl's.) Silence! 

" ' Trenton, Nov. 4, 18— 
" ' Mr. Dale, D.D. — Dear Sir : — I have at last resolved 
to enter the bonds-matrimonial, and, if you could find it con- 
venient, should like to be married, from the church, at seven 
o'clock this evening. Miss Lettie Roping is my bride-elect. 
We desire the affair to be as private as possible. Yours truly, 

" ' George Todd.' 

" How's that?" 

This note also was heard and approved amid shouts of laugh- 
ter, and then Dick commanded silence. 

" We'll send notes like Roping' s to each of the hunchbacks, 
and then look out for sport. I've a notion that we'll take a 
bird's-eye view of matrimony from the left-hand gallery about 
that time. I'll send the notes at once. Brethren, the meeting 
is gone out." 

That Lettie Roping wanted to get married was probably true ; 
since every woman who has arrived at the age of thirty, and 
never had an offer, naturally feels uneasy as regards the future. 
It was not her aim in life. If some man whom she loved had 
asked her to walk the long path with him, she would have been 
happy ; but since such had not come, she kept her face in sun- 
shine for her widowed mother. She was a good girl, and rather 
pretty, full of tender, gentle ways, and sweet womanliness, but 
very shy and bashful. This probably, explained the fact of 
her being an old-maid; for no one could know Lettie Roping 
and not love her. She had not an enemy in the world, unless 
Dick Taylor and his crew, who all liked Lettie but fun better, 
might be so considered; and there was not a girl in Trenton 



178 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

more highly esteemed. She was a good daughter, and a con- 
scientious church-member. 

To a clinging nature like hers, which reaches up to love as 
naturally as grapes to sunshine, the thought of dying unlov- 
ing and unloved must have been painful; but of this Lettie 
gave no sign. She had one visitor — George Todd. At pre- 
cisely seven o'clock every Tuesday evening, George was at the 
door. When she opened it, he always bowed, and remarked 
he'd been walking fast and his face was red. " Mother well, 
Lettie ? " he would add. " Quite well, George. Come in, 
won't you ? " Thus invited, George would enter, take a chair 
opposite Lettie, and watch the quick needle in Lettie's fingers 
flashing in and out of her work, saying little, but with a quiet 
content on his face, which was better than words. As the 
clock struck ten he invariably arose, with the remark that he 
must be going ; and, after leaving his " Good-by, Lettie ! Give 
my regards to your mother ! " she would hear no more of him 
until next Tuesday even at seven o'clock. 

George was a good man. He was quick and earnest in 
business, and showed none of the awkward bashfulness among 
men which he so constantly exhibited to Lettie Roping. He 
had made for himself a fortune, and kept bachelor's hall in the 
handsomest house in Trenton. But George was bashful. He 
had arrived at the age of forty, and had never as yet sum- 
moned courage to meet ladies as he did gentlemen — with a 
perfect consciousness of equality. These were the parties so 
cruelly included in Dick Taylor's joke. 

" Mother," said Lettie Roping that same evening, smooth- 
ing down the folds of her neat brown merino, " Mr. Dale wants 
me at the church at seven ; so I guess I'll go round a minute." 

" What does he want, Lettie ? " asked the old lady. 

" I can't imagine, I'm sure. Some church-business^, though. 
I'll tell you when I come back. Good-by, mother." 

Lettie kissed her mother, and took her way to the church. 
It was already lighted and warmed. She entered the vestibule, 
saying to herself that she must be late; but, on looking into 
the church, she altered her mind, since she saw a little group 
standing by the altar. She went in. George Todd and four 
hunchbacks were all in the group. Just then Mr. Dale, in his 



EAKLY PEOSE WOKKS 179 

gown, came out from the dressing-room, and knelt in silent 
prayer. There was a slight noise as of laughter in the gallery 
as Mr. Dale, book in hand, came forward to the chancel-railing. 

" What do you want of us, Mr. Dale ? " asked George Todd, 
astonished at the proceedings. 

Mr. Dale smiled in spite of himself. Had that man come 
there to be married, brought four hunchbacks as witnesses, and 
then must he ask Mr. Dale what he wanted of him % He thought 
that George Todd's bashfulness had gotten the better of his 
common-sense. 

" Let the couple to be united come forward," he said. 

" What couple ? " asked George, satisfied that he being the 
only man present, must be included in the " couple." 

Mr. Dale was puzzled. There was suppressed giggling in 
the gallery. 

" Did you not write me a note this morning, Mr. Todd, say- 
ing that you desired to be married to Miss Lettie Hoping at 
seven this evening ? " 

A light began to dawn on George. He passed a note to Mr. 
Dale. 

" Did you write that, sir ? " 

Mr. Dale read it twice. 

" I never did ! " he returned, in an astonished tone. " I 
never did ! " 

" Why are we here ? " demanded one of the hunchbacks. 
" Mr. Dale, what do you want of us ? " 

" Why, why," ejaculated the Rector, " that's the oddest 
thing ! Mr. Todd, didn't you mean to marry Miss Roping ? " 

"I — I hadn't thought of it, Sir ! " said George, coloring 
to the roots of his hair. 

" The note said we were to be witnesses," said one of the 
hunchbacks ; " and you've brought us here to be laughed at. 
That's what you've done." 

There was more than a giggle in the gallery now, and George 
understood plainly the drift of the joke. He looked over at 
Lettie. She had turned away from them, standing with her 
flushed face hidden in her hands. Even her throat was flushed, 
and he could see her trembling as she stood. He understood her 
shy sensitiveness, and all his manhood protested against her 



ISO THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

having the cruel burden of this joke to bear. That it would 
meet her at every turn, he knew; that it would almost break 
her heart, he was equally certain. At this thought all timidity 
left him. He would save her if he could. He crossed over to 
where she stood, and said gently, without a tremor in his voice : 

" Lettie, this is a cruel joke; but we have known each other 
for a long time, and why should we not turn it ? I have loved 
you for a long time, Lettie, and will do so to the end. Mr. Dale 
is here, and the witnesses are here. Will you be my wife 
now, Lettie ? " 

She took her hands from her face, and asked : 

" Do you ask me that because you think that I am not able 
to bear up under this joke? " 

" No ; though that will be hard, I ask you because I love you, 
Lettie, and would begin shielding you from this moment for- 
ward. Come, Lettie my love ! my love ! " 

Silently, Lettie allowed him to lead her to the altar. 

" Proceed with the service ! " said George to Mr. Dale. 

They knelt quietly for a moment, and then Mr. Dale's solemn 
voice broke the stillness. 

" Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here, in the sight 
of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this 
man and this woman in holy matrimony." And so on through 
the service. 

Then the prayer silently arose, hushing every heart. One 
by one, the boys in the gallery stole out on tip-toe; and when 
Mr. Dale raised his head to congratulate the newly wedded 
pair the gallery was empty. 

''' Come, friends ! " said George to the hunchbacks ; " and you 
too, Mr. Dale. We will go to Lettie' s mother's, and have a 
pleasant finishing of the happiest joke in which I ever par- 
ticipated. No refusal. You must go ! " And go they did. 

When the company reached Widow Roping' s house, they 
found upon the steps a great white wedding cake, and on it a 
card : " From the jokers." 

The four witnesses, after all, had been most pained by the 
joke, since their particular infirmities had been so cruelly shown 
up ; but even this pain was assuaged by the widow's good cheer 
and the happy couple's genial kindness. And they had a gay 



EAELY PEOSE WOKKS 181 

time that night, though the great cake suffered in consequence, 
since they vented on it their anger against the givers. Of 
course, Dick Taylor, and his crew must get up a concert, in 
which all the pans, kettles, cats, and bones in the town were 
actively employed ; and great was the clatter, and mewing, and 
rattling thereof ; but suddenly there was a lull, and Dick's clear, 
boyish voice sang out: 

" happy pair ! Ye brave and fair ! 

We wish you joy completest! 
We won't deny your suit was sly — 

Our joke was turned the neatest. 
But if you please, on bended knees, 

We beg your grace for singing. 
Right glad are we this joy to see 

From such a bad beginning." 

Then the chorus was taken up by the whole crowd, and given 
with a will : 

" Hurrah for the bride ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 

Three cheers for the bridegroom's wit! 
Hurrah for the jokes that have proved such a hoax ! 

And yet, after all, have hit! 
Hurrah! hurrah! for groom and bride! 

And dean and witnesses beside! " 

And then accompanied by the full orchestra of pans, kettles, 
and cats — the latter under Dick Taylor's skillful hands — 
the youthful band of serenaders moved on, leaving the Widow 
Eoping's house in comparative quietness and superlative hap- 
piness. 

For the New York Mercury, December 23, 1865. 



A VISION AND ITS LESSON 

It was Christmas Eve. Already the old town-clock had 
struck eleven strokes, and the " hour of fairy ban and spell " 
came on apace. Without, the calm moon smiled upon the al- 
most deserted streets, and through the silence I could almost 
fancy that I heard the silver tinkling of the bells, as Santa 
Claus drove his nimble-footed little team over the house-tops 
on his errand of joy; within, beside the cradle of my darling 



182 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

I kept silent solemn watch. The warm, bright tints of carpets 
and curtains gleamed cheerily in the rosy glow of the firelight, 
and the gas, half head, made twilight in the room, and filled the 
farthest corners with changing shadowy spirits, which danced 
their weird dance upon the wall and ceiling. But all this 
comfort I did not heed. I had been a watcher for many 
nights beside that tiny crib, and tired Nature was claiming a 
respite. The soft billows of heat which flowed from the glow- 
ing coals, were very apt to bear one unconsciously onward to 
the sweet river of sleep ; but my strong mother-love battled val- 
iantly with Nature, and kept guard over the child struggling 
silently for its life in that death-like sleep. 

I gazed at the beautiful face as it lay before me, and to my 
partial eyes no scene could be so beautiful. My baby, my 
love, my idol. If he should die My rebellious heart rose 
blindly at the thought, and fought against its Maker. " Not 
that, O Lord ; not that," I cried in agony. " Spare my boy, my 
darling. Let this cup pass from me. The child shall not die." 
I bent over my child. His face was flushed with fever, and his 
bright lip was curled in pain. As I looked, his lips quivered. 
Fearful of awaking him, I sank back to my chair, and so to my 
knees, praying for his life, demanding of God the soul which 
he seemed calling to himself. As I prayed, a soft, mellow 
light shone around my baby's crib ; and from its heart I saw a 
figure, calm and majestic, with a soft halo about its head, ap- 
pear. It came toward me, and I saw then that its face was 
as the face of an angel. The calm eyes looked with a pitiful re- 
proach into mine, and yet the sad lips smiled upon me. He was 
clad in a loose, flowing robe of dark blue, and his hair, parted 
after the Eastern fashion, from the middle, waved softly to his 
shoulders. In his presence the fierce tumult in my heart sank 
silently into quiet. It was as though a Master-spirit had 
claimed and exercised his power. As the rough waves of Gali- 
lee smoothed their angry billows at the commanding voice of 
God, so a silent " Peace for thee," seemed spoken to my surg- 
ing heart, and immediately " there was a great calm." 

My strange visitor, with that holy calm upon his face, stood 
beside my child, and as he spoke, his hand was laid upon its 
heart. 



EAELY PEOSE WOKKS 183 

" You would have this child's life ? " he questioned, in a 
soft, melodious voice. " Are you willing to bear the suffer- 
ing which this child's life may bring you! O woman! Let 
not your mother's heart make you rebellious to your Master." 

I stood silently before his rebuke, but my heart could not 
bow to God's decree, and I cried : " Save his life. O Lord ! 
save but his life and I will bear even unto death." 

Slowly he raised his hand — before me the room slowly 
opened, and I saw a room, dark, and cold, and cheerless. The 
crushing hand of poverty seemed to have fallen heavily there. 
Cowering over the fast-dying embers, I saw myself holding my 
child. Ah, the agony upon the face of that shadow of myself ; 
the pinched, haggard face of my idol, and his wailing cry of 
hunger, struck terror to my heart. That scene told of suffer- 
ings, and a life of trial, but — I smiled as I looked — my child 
was there and alive. As I looked, the scene changed — a more 
comfortable room, lighted by tapers, was before me, and again 
I saw myself and my child. He was standing on the floor, his 
baby-face flushed and distorted by passion, his tiny hands 
clenched, and his slippered foot set upon the neck of a white 
dove, which had been his pet, and had some way offended him. 
I turned, shuddering from my beautiful child, and from that 
image of myself vainly trying to soothe him. 

" Are not the hands of his Savior better to guide the babe ? " 
asked the stranger, slowly. 

Before I could reply, the ever-changing scenes shifted, and 
I saw another picture of my boy. 

He was in a schoolroom. There were many children, and 
among them all my boy was the most beautiful. He was 
standing alone, and on his face I noticed a cruel delight as he 
watched the painful flutterings of a butterfly which he was 
torturing. That look upon his face, the soft baby-face, sha- 
dowed by drooping, golden curls, made my fearful heart trem- 
ble. He held the insect impaled, and laughed to see its flutter- 
ing agony. I turned away. 

" Look! " said the strange man at my side. " Look! " and, 
because unable to resist, I turned again to the scene. 

It was a small, cozy room, lighted by a night4amp. The 
small clock on the mantle held its silent finger on the hour of 



184 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

midnight; but the figure entering with a stealthy tread, drew 
all my attention. This had lost its shadow of curls, its dimpled 
rosiness of infancy, but still I knew my boy, the babe whose 
life I had demanded of God. He had grown to youth, and there 
was a look in his eyes of having drained life's pleasures to the 
dregs. I grieved to see that his lip had lost its innocent, full 
curve, in a curl of scorn, and that his face wore a look of having 
sinned. 

He came forward now, cautiously stopped, listened, then ad- 
vanced. His hand was on my desk. He turned the key. 
With a stilled cry my heart sprang up. My boy was a thief. 
Silently, he passed from the scene with a roll of bills in his 
hand; silently the darkened room lengthened and brightened 
until it lay before me a gorgeous saloon, bright with lights 
and rich tints; merry with the sound of men's voices and the 
clink of glasses. 

Again I saw my boy. There were men old in life and crime, 
and youths just standing on the brink of manhood. There were 
gamblers with the exultation of success lighting their dark faces ; 
and men in silent agony bending over the boards, staking their 
all of life, their hopes of Heaven, on the single throw of a 
card; but among them all I saw my boy. He had staked the 
money; and I knew by the dead whiteness of his face and 
the close clenching of his hands that on that card his soul was 
staked. 

Bending forward, I watched the game. It went on. My 
boy's face lightened. Another moment and he staggered out 
into the silent night, a beggar. The scene slowly faded into a 
silent road, over which the stars kept watch. My boy with a 
desperate look on his young face, bared his brow to the cool 
soothing air. His face was relaxing, when suddenly I saw it 
harden again. The man who had won the game was before him. 
A moment more, and a sharp report rang on the air. And I 
— O God ! my child was a murderer ! 

I turned away with a pitiful shudder ; but the stranger at my 
side commanded : 

"Look! look!" 

The silent road and calm cold stars were gone. In their 
place I saw a court room, densely crowded. Now the people 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 185 

were gathered to see a man fight for his life with the cruel law, 
as they had once done in haughty Rome, when gladiators strove 
with beasts. 

I saw their curious, interested faces, and noted a few sympa- 
thetic ones ; but my heart and my eyes, and life, clung to that 
handsome pale, boyish face in the criminal's box. It was the 
face of the baby I had rocked to sleep on my bosom — the face 
of the child I had forbidden God to take. Oh, how my heart 
ached now! How it prayed for pardon when its idol was ar- 
raigned before men as a criminal. The evidence had been given. 
A low murmur passed through the assembly. The verdict was 
ready. It was given, and my boy was a murderer in the first de- 
gree. 

Slowly now the courtroom faded with its buzzing mass of 
humanity. The tragedy was adjourned. The curtain slowly 
rose on the fifth act ; and I knew that for me life's cup of sorrow 
was filled to overflowing. In the distance I saw a scaffold 
loom up above the heads of thousands, there waiting the finale 
of this play of life. 

I would fain have turned from the scene, or closed my eyes ; 
but, held by a power mightier than my own, I could not move. 
The crown of thorns was offered to me, and I must wear it. 
The cup of gall was held to me, and I must drink it : 

" Though the trembling lips shall shrink, 
White with anguish as they drink, 
And the forehead sweat with pain 
Drops of blood like purple rain." 

Above the heads of the crowd I saw the calm face of my boy, 
stilled and awful with the shadow of the coming death, peni- 
tent and softened with the thought of the coining judgment. I 
saw no more. My mother-heart broke then, and I sank to my 
knees, praying of a merciful God to smite my boy before the 
fierce hands of his human executioners should mar the beauty 
of his face. I had now no plea for his innocent life, but a 
prayer that his guilty soul might be saved. As I bent in 
prayer, stricken by the bitterest sorrow that a mother's heart 
could know, broken-hearted beneath the rod of chastisement 
which my Master wielded, because of a rebellious heart, know- 
ing that but a few short moments were left to the darling of life, 



186 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

my soul bent down. I felt the stranger's hand upon my head, 
and a soft peace stole in upon my soul. " O God ! " I cried, 
" not my will, not my will, but Thine be done ! " 

At my cry, the soft light which had flooded the apartment 
had died out ; the holy face of my strange visitor, like a shadowy 
vision, disappeared. The crowd, and scaffold, and my doomed 
boy, were all gone. My fire was burning low. I was still on 
my knees. I sprang up and bent over the child. His waxen 
hands were crossed loosely upon his breast; the sweet smile of 
a baby's slumber was clinging to his lips; and his golden hair, 
moist with the dew of sleep, in clustering rings lay upon his pil- 
low. There was no sign of conflict. And yet over the cradle 
of my babe I knew that a battle had been lost and won, and 
the Angel of Sleep was vanquished by the Angel of Death. I 
knew now that the vision had been sent of God, and that he 
deemed my hand too weak to guide the footsteps of my baby. I 
knew now that in mercy, not in anger, He smote me ; and, with 
the agonizing memory of that dream still burnt in heart and 
brain, I sealed my baby's lips with kisses, lips which would 
never open until the last great day; and from the crushed and 
broken flower of my heart sent up the fragrance of resignation 
and contrition, praying Him, for His Son's dear sake, to smite 
me gently ; and consigning with a willing, though bleeding heart, 
to his tenderer, truer, wiser care, my baby-boy. 

For the New York Mercury, February 10, 1866. 



THE GOLD BRACELET 

*'Lost, on or near Pearl street, on last evening, a heavy gold bracelet, 
set with rubies. The finder will be liberally rewarded by leaving the same 
at this office." 

Lloyd Graham let his brown eyes rest upon the advertisement 
with a little knowing twinkle in them, then carefully drew 
from his pocket an article of jewelry amazingly like the de- 
scription. 

" That's always the way," he complained, sotto voce. " Con- 
found the luck ! " 



EAKLY PEOSE WOEKS 187 

Lloyd was an honest young man ; had not the least desire to 
keep the bauble from its rightful owner, but he had woven many 
fancies with that toy as nucleus. He had built him a beauti- 
ful castle, whose turrets rose to the heavens, and the corner- 
stone was that tiny bracelet, which he could grind to powder 
with one touch of his foot. 

" How am I to see the owner of this, I'd be pleased to know ? " 
he continued, as though he was defrauded of a right. " Every- 
body goes to that office, but " — with a, long sigh, which utterly 
demolished his fairy castle, " If I must, I must — so here 
goes." 

Lloyd arose from his lounging position, and smoothed his 
mustache as an inducement to obey the mandate " increase and 
grow," took bracelet and paper, and started for the office of the 
Star. 

Just at that moment, a carriage, drawn by a fine pair of bays, 
stopped at the entrance, and he caught a glimpse of deep blue 
eyes, and shining hair; of full red lips, and an oval face, with 
the faintest rose-tint flushing its soft whiteness ; and then the 
driver opened the door, and then the lady alighted, saying, 
with a pretty willfulness, to some one inside : 

a Now, Charles, you know I will. I want to get it myself. 
Stay where you are." 

Lloyd passed in after the lady, and stood at her side when 
she spoke to the editor, who was lounging in a smoking-chair, 
cigar in hand. 

" Good morning, Mr. Fry. Has the bracelet been found 
yet?" 

" Not yet, Miss Daisy. I'm sorry to say," was the reply, 
given with a deferential bow. " I'm afraid it's gone for good." 

" Oh, I hope not," with a slight quivering of the lips. " I 
wanted it so much." 

" Then you shall be gratified," said Lloyd, suddenly advanc- 
ing to her side, and placing the jewel in her hand. " I did not 
see the advertisement until this morning, which accounts for 
the delay. I was just on the point of leaving it with Mr. 
Ery, but I place it in your fairer hands." 

Graham bowed, and was turning away, when the lady called : 



188 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

He returned to her side. She was blushing, and evidently ill 
at ease. She made two or three unsuccessful attempts to speak, 
and finally said, half vexed at her own blushing : 

" I don't know what to say. The bracelet is worth ten times 
its value to me. You read the advertisement. I shall be most 
happy to — to " 

The lady paused suddenly, seeing the hot flush that burnt in 
Lloyd's face, and he, with a slight curl of his handsome lips re- 
plied : 

" Thanks, no. I shall not claim the reward at present." 

Then he left the office, and stood at the side-door until she had 
entered her carriage, and driven away. 

All day long the fine eyes and rosy lips of the lady played 
hide-and-seek in Lloyd's busy brain, and at evening he impa- 
tiently threaded his way to the editor's office ; found that func- 
tionary, of course, smoking his cigar, as though he had never 
left off since early morning. 

Mr. Fry, smoking, peered up at Lloyd from the depths of his 
chair, and through the clouds of smoke, and replied to his ques- 
tions in this manner : 

" Have a cigar ? Oh, you won't ; so much the better for me, 
and the worse for you. The young lady ! Oh, with blue eyes ! 
Ah, I did not notice her eyes; never do. Think eyes are all 
alike, so long as one can see out of them ; but as to the young- 
lady, why, my dear fellow, I can't say who she is. Her brother 
writes for my paper, and calls her Daisy, since she looks as 
much like one as anything else. She brings his MSS., that's 
all I know." And Lloyd, no wiser man than he was, went 
home. 

The many-colored leaves of autumn fell with their soft music 
to the earth, and the pitying snow came down and buried them ; 
but the wild winds came, laughing in and out among the trees, 
tossing the snow from their branches, and breaking the crystal 
fetters that bound the streams. Then the warm sunshine came, 
and the daisies under the hedge lifted their rosy lips to meet his 
kisses. The city grew hot and dusty. Fever and her pallid 
train left the rosy country and took her station in the dust 
and heat of the town, until citizens fled from her presence. 
Among these Lloyd Graham. He seized an armful of pieces of 



EAKLY PEOSE WOEKS 189 

apparel, jammed them into his portmanteau indiscriminately, 
snapped the lock, with the self-gratulatory remark: 

" There, that's done. Folks make so much fuss over pack- 
ing. It don't take me five minutes. I can't see but it's easy 
enough." And then took the train, which bore him near his 
Aunt Sarah's country-house, and twenty miles from the city. 

Half an hour's ride, and Lloyd Graham found himself at the 
station. Fifteen minutes' walk, and he was at Aunt Sarah's. 
What a home-like place it was, that cozy white frame, with its 
broad, long piazza, overrun by honeysuckle and roses; and 
barely visible from the road, because of its poplars, and maples, 
and evergreens. Lloyd walked under the vines, through the 
hall, and out into the clean, white-floored kitchen. The walls 
were garnished by feathery asparagus-boughs, and Aunt Sarah 
had put up several clover wreaths about the windows. She was 
there, singing some cheery song to herself; her round, plump 
arms buried to the elbows in flour ; and her fine, motherly face 
aglow with the sweetest of lights — the light of perfect con- 
tentment. Lloyd, like the mischievous fellow that he was, 
stepped up behind her, seized her in a sudden embrace, and 
bestowed a hearty kiss upon her lips. 

She uttered a scream of terror, which changed into one of 
delight when she recognized her nephew. 

" I declare," she said, laughing and crying in one breath, 
" I'm so glad to see you I don't know what to say. Take that 
chair. Are they all well at home ? " 

A cloud darkened Lloyd's face ; but he replied : 

" Yes, aunt ; all well." 

" How doleful you look ! I'll soon have that forlorn expres- 
sion off your handsome face. Why don't vou get married, 
Lloyd?" 

There floated up to him a vision of blue eyes and scarlet lips, 
the reality which he had seen at the editor's office, and he re- 
plied, soberly: 

" Because I never saw but one woman that I would marry ; 
and I never saw her but once ! " 

" Love at first sight ! Strange that you should be caught 
that way, Lloyd. Emma Eussell is out here now. She is a 
very sweet girl. I must have you two meet. Where's your 



190 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

mother, dear ? I want to see her so much. Clara was always 
my darling." 

Lloyd arose and went to his aunt's side. 

" She is well, dear aunt," he said. " Have you not heard that 
she is — is — asleep these two months ? " 

No, she had not heard ; and all the old sad scenes had to he 
repeated in Aunt Sarah's cozy kitchen — lived over again in 
the repetition, until Lloyd's heart hied afresh, only to he 
soothed the more tenderly by Aunt Sarah's sympathy. 

After a few days, time hung heavy on Lloyd's hands. One 
breezy afternoon, he strolled out into the beautiful woodland, 
that clasped the horizon in its beautiful chain. The birds, 
too indolent to sing, were all a-twitter in the branches, and 
the bees had fallen asleep in the clover blossoms. Lloyd had 
brought for his enjoyment Tennyson's " Idyls," and was look- 
ing for a friendly bank, which should be both shady and dry, 
when he heard the sweet, clear tones of a woman. She was sing- 
ing some ballad ; but her voice so turned in and out of the woods 
that Lloyd could not distinguish them. Following the voice, 
it was not long before he found the singer. She was sitting at 
the foot of a tree, busily engaged in weaving a moss-basket from 
mosses she had gathered. Her hat was lying at her side filled 
with ferns ; and her sweet face, gleaming out beneath the curls, 
was that of Lloyd's lady of the editor's office. 

Never very diffident, and recognizing the face instantly, 
Lloyd stepped forward with a smile. The lady ceased her 
pleasant singing, and, with a startled look, prepared to rise 
from her informal position. 

" Sit still, I beg of you," he said bowing. " I should be 
sorry to disturb you. My aunt's woodland joins this, and I 
was not aware that I was trespassing. We have met before," 
he added, watching the faint flush rising to her cheek. " I am 
Lloyd Graham — you remember I restored your bracelet to 
you?" 

"Well, sir!" 

" Little golden-hair is haughty," thought Lloyd. 

" After that," pursued Lloyd, unabashed, " I found an ebony 
cross which might have fallen from the guard of the bracelet. 
It is here." 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 191 

He pointed to a small cross fastened to his chatelaine, but 
did not offer to loosen it. A playful expression flitted across 
her face as she extended her hand for it, with a smiling " thank 
you." He imprisoned the hand a moment, and, then as she 
withdrew it, said: 

" Thank me for nothing ? Unless you command me, I shall 
not return it just yet. Come, please resume your pretty work, 
and, if you'll allow me, I'll read Tennyson to you. Don't you 
like him?" 

" Very much," she replied, enthusiastically. " Will you read 
me ' Maud ' ? " 

" No, not this morning. I will some time. Which one of 
the ' Idyls ' will you have ? " 

" Why can't I have ' Maud ' ? " she asked, half -pouting. 

" Firstly, I haven't it here. Secondly, I shouldn't like to 
commence a friendship with you by so cynical a story." 

" Then read me ' Elaine.' " 

The busy hands resumed their pleasant toil; and the full, 
rich voice took up the sad, sad burden of " Elaine " ; and by- 
and-by the toiling hands of Daisy were lying motionless upon 
her work, and her blue eyes grew tearful as she drank in the 
well-remembered story. When Lloyd's voice ceased, she drew 
a deep sigh, and repeated: 

" Not knowing he should die a holy man." 

The sunshine had risen step by step, and the shadows had 
deepened until it was twilight in the woods. The lady rose, 
took her unfinished basket and her jaunty little hat, and said, 
gravely (for the shadow cast by the story was still upon her) : 

" I thank you, Mr. Graham, although you have saddened 
me. I must go home now." 

Lloyd resumed the cap which he had thrown aside, and pre- 
pared to accompany her. 

" Do you intend," he said slightly embarrassed, " to condemn 
me to calling you, as Mr. Fry does, Miss Daisy? or will you 
give me a more tangible name ? " 

She hesitated for a moment, and then replied : 

" Certainly, I will give you my entire history if you wish. 
My name is Emma Ross. My brother is an invalid — a writer 



192 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

— and we came here for his health. In the city I teach 
school." 

Lloyd's lip curled slightly. She observed it, and added at 
once: 

" I thank Mr. Graham for his kindness. School-teachers 
have not often rarer enjoyment than a fine reader for an after- 
noon in the quiet fragrance of the woods. I turn off here. 
Good evening." 

Lloyd, brave, manly, full of noble impulses, as I would have 
you think him, and as he certainly was, yet had learned to curl 
his lip at those who were far above him in that they fulfilled the 
mandate " That which thy hands find to do, do it." And 
now, as he watched the graceful form flitting up the narrow 
lane, he repeated bitterly: 

" Pshaw ! A school-teacher ! Yet how intelligent she is ! 
How pretty her eyes looked, full of tears. I wish she was a 
Russell. They are not wealthy, though Aunt Jane thinks so ; 
but they have good blood in their veins — school-teachers sel- 
dom do. She is a lady though — ■ this golden-haired little 
teacher of mine. Lloyd Graham, you can't marry a teacher any 
more than you can a washer- woman ! And here you've been 
dreaming of her all these months ! Give it up at once ! Avaunt, 
dreams ! " 

However commanded, those dreams hovered still about Lloyd's 
brain, like bees about a honey-comb in summertime. His last 
waking thought was of the little teacher; and, when his feet, 
enchanted, wandered into dreamland, they paused beneath the 
shadow of an old tree in the green woods; and again he was 
reading " Elaine," with a most dangerous emphasis upon such 
verses as : 

" Not to be with you — not to see your face ! 
Alas! for me, then, my good days are done." 

and a most dangerous glance into the blue, innocent eyes, that 
were fixed upon his face. 

After this, and spite of resolutions au contraire, hourly made, 
every afternoon found Lloyd in the woodland ; but it was a long 
time before he found Miss Daisy there again. When he did, she 
was under the same tree where he had seen her before. 

" Good afternoon, Miss Daisy," he said, gayly ; seating him- 



EAKLY PKOSE WOKKS 193 

self by her side. " I always come here for daisies, but for the 
past few days have found none." 

" Daisies are not always found when searched for/' she re- 
plied, smilingly. 

" No ; but I am content to have found one, after many days' 
searching." 

" Be not sure that it is found. It may flit." 

" True, I shall hold it by a stronger chain. What shall I read 
while you work at that woman's work ? But first — how is 
your brother % and what do you bring work to the wood for ? " 

" Brother is better, and I bring work here because I have 
done so every year since I can remember; and it makes me 
happy. Any more questions, Monsieur ? " 

" Yes," glancing into the demure face, " Were you ever 
unhappy ? " 

A shadow fell and lingered on Daisy's face as she replied : 

" Two years ago, father, and mother, and sister Lillian, all 
died in the space of three months ; and, shortly afterward, Harry 
lamed himself for life." 

" My poor, poor child ! " 

In reply to the earnest sympathy of his tone, tears started to 
Daisy's eyes ; but, controlling herself bravely, she said : 

" You have ' Hiawatha,' read me some of that, please." 

" On condition that you will come here on every fine after- 
noon, until I finish the poem, ma belle." 

She hesitated, then promised; and the weird story was com- 
menced. 

Days passed; and still under the sombre shadows of the 
forest — where once the Indian races had held their terrible 
councils and courted their dark-eyed loves, this story of their 
lives were being read; still the shining curls and blue eyes of 
the little teacher were the stars in his horizon. Vainly had 
Aunt Sarah striven to arouse him to his duties as a suitor ; 
Emma Kussell had no charms for him, and he was even so rude 
as to remark: 

" That he didn't care a rushlight for all the Eussells that ever 
lived." 

Poor Aunt Sarah's innocent ambition lulled itself to sleep 
with its own complaining. 



194 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

One goldenly glorious afternoon, when crimson and gold were 
mottling the emerald of the forest, and chattering squirrels were 
beginning to gather their united stores, Lloyd finished the story 
of Hiawatha to his little listener. She drew a deep sigh as he 
closed the book, and said : 

" I have heard our last reading. I am going to leave for the 
city to-morrow." 

" Going to-morrow, Miss Daisy ? Surely not." 

" Surely yes ; my school needs me." 

" But I need you more, Daisy ; far, far more." 

" Lloyd," she said ; " you will soon forget these pleasant after- 
noons, and this poor Daisy whom you think you need now." 

Of course, the young gentleman protested he should do no 
such thing; and of course, little Daisy, like the foolish child 
she was, believed he spoke " Gospel-Truth." She asked one 
question. 

" Do you — are you willing to marry the poor school-teacher, 
lovingly and truly % " 

" Freely, and oh, so lovingly, my Daisy," he made answer. 
" To me you are rich in all that makes life valuable ; and a 
teacher but of innocence, my woodland flower." 

" Then Lloyd, I mu9t tell you, dear, that I am not poor, as 
the world judges, although a teacher. I could not feel that idle- 
ness was right, so I have taught. One deception you must for- 
give — my name is Emma Ross Russell — Lloyd," archly ; 
" have I refinement and family ? I gave you my middle name, 
because I did not wish you to know your near neighbor ; and, be- 
cause — " 

"What, my Daisy?" 

" I wanted to see if you would love your pride best, or me." 

Lloyd told his aunt of his engagement to Emma Russell, and 
that good lady wiped her glasses, put them on; took them off; 
and repeated the rubbing, and still found them misty, from 
very joy. 

" Who'd a' thought," she said, laughing and crying together ; 
" that when I was e'en most breakin' my heart because things 
wasn't goin' my way, that here they was a doin' that very 
thing. Well, Lloyd, you was obstinate about not seeing Emma 
Russell, and yet you was caught in spite of yourself. God bless 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 195 

you, my boy. Things will turn out queerly. If it hadn't been 
for that lost bracelet, you wouldn't have found a wife." 

And, reader mine, we would never have found a romance 
hidden in the heart of Daisy Russell Graham. 

For the New York Mercury. March 17, 1866. 

MISCARRIED BUT CARRIED 

" Mr. Lollman Barker/' read the postman from a dainty rec- 
tangular envelope one chill February-morning, looking, at the 
same time, inquiringly at me. He knew as well as I did — that 
sly rascal — that letters in dainty feminine characters were not 

wont to find their way to Beckman street. He knew as well 

as I did — that sly postman — that all my letters were in yel- 
low envelopes, directed in a great sprawling penmanship, and 
strongly perfumed — not with heliotrope, as was this one — 
but with soap, candles, sugar, and codfish. Hence he looked 
inquiringly at me. 

" All right," I replied, assuming the utter nonchalance that 
I could command, and making an attempt to suggest to the 
postman that I was in the daily receipt of such letters, which 
I had a mortifying certainty was a failure, since he read again, 
" Mr. Lollman Barker. There's no number here, sir." 

" I can't help that," I said, curtly, and the letter was left 
in my hand. I listened until the postman, after the manner 
of postmen in general, rattled down the steps, and so out of 
sight, then turned into my room and easy-chair before I opened 
the note. The initials were black, and there was a slender black 
thread running around the envelope, which made me shudder 
as we do in a sudden cold wind. I opened it soberly. It read : 

" My Dear Loll : — A letter from you at last ! How happy 
I was to hear! I had almost forgotten that Hope was still 
alive, and I was sure that you had forgotten your old true 
' Pet ' ; though you may say, and undoubtedly do, remember 
Clara. I hope the babies are quite well. Kiss them for me. 
We are all well, and delighted with our new home. Your note 
was so brief. Do come and see me soon. Dear Loll, I am glad 
that you are happy. Yours affectionately, " Pet. 



196 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" P.S. — I have had some flirtations this winter, Loll. The 
dark-eyed gentleman you scolded me for flirting with when you 
were here, you recollect, spent last evening here." 

So it ended. It was a simple, innocent, childish letter, that 
somehow clung to my interest as the scent of the heliotrope to 
its leaves ; and yet, from the time that my blue-eyed little sister 
broke from the clinging of my heart, and " went up higher " 
with the gold of her curls untarnished, and the white of her 
soul unsullied, I had never had " a pet." From the time my 
dying mother touched my boyish brow with chilling fingers, and 
whispered all the sweetest names that mothers use, I had 
never been called " My dear Loll." 

Mine had been a life of isolation. Early orphaned — doubly 
orphaned — since my father left no good name to stand up by, 
but, instead, the burden of a sullied one, which I must lift again 
to its pristine excellence — my heart had clung with an intense 
passionate devotion to the tender little sister, who, in turn, 
clung to me. But her little hands fell coldly from me; her 
blue eyes looked no love into mine; and the violets, wet with 
dew, were not chillier than her brow. 

So I was left alone — a proud, sensitive, poor boy, bending 
under the burden of a sullied name. So I began life, wrapping 
my reserve and pride, cloak-like, about me, until, on this night, 
at twenty-four, I stood a rich man — a successful merchant, 
whose name was as good as gold on 'Change, but whose heart 
had found no one to cling to — whose thoughts too often wan- 
dered. 

" what shall I be at fifty, 

Should nature keep me alive, 
If I find this world so bitter 
When I am but twenty-five ? " 

This much I have written of myself, as some extenuation of 
what I did, and because I thought it all over that morning, so 
I read and re-read the girlish letter. I saw that it was post- 
marked " Washington," and, by a strange coincidence, I was 
just preparing for a trip to that city on business. With no 
definite object in view, I carefully copied the heading of the 
letter, " Clinton street, No. 65." Then writing on the envelope 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 197 

" Opened by mistake/' I took my hat and muffler, went down 
the street and re-mailed it, feeling as though I had lost my best 
friend. 

That was Saturday. On the following Tuesday, I was in 
Washington, busy as I could be transacting business, until twi- 
light released me for the day. It was not very cold that even- 
ing, though the snow lay a few inches deep upon the silent 
streets, having been falling all day ; and a general air of winter 
made me draw my muffler closer about my ears. 

As I reached the hotel, a sense of my utter loneliness and 
desolation, as it often did, smote me suddenly. I turned and 
walked away — walking quickly and steadily, with a gloomy 
heart and aching head. I shall always think it was Fate, or 
was it the good Providence ? that led me, suddenly, I knew not 
why, to lift my head and glance at the house I was passing. It 
was only a small, white frame cottage; but through the open 
window I saw a fairer sight than I had ever seen in any richer 
home. It was the face of a young girl, dipping about in the 
lamplight, as she tended some flowers in the window — a face 
fair and smiling, with a light upon it which would make it 
forever " firelight, starlight, moonlight," to the happy heart 
which should win it. I glanced at the door, 65 was on it; and 
at the one adjoining at the corner I saw " Clinton Street." 

This, then, was the writer of the note ; these, then, were the 
eyes that had smiled when some other Tollman Barker had called 
her his " Pet " ; these were the hands which had, birdlike, flut- 
tered over the paper, and left the melody for another heart's 
cheering. 

With no more idea of what I was to do than a wild Indian sud- 
denly elected to gubernatorial chair would have, I mounted the 
steps and lifted the quaint knocker. As the summons rang out 
sharply I remembered that I did not know her name — that I 
knew nothing, and had no right there ; but, before I could escape, 
the door was opened, and the little fairy stood before me, with 
a question in her eyes. I bowed very low as I said, prompted 
by I know not what good spirit, " Mr. Tollman Barker, at your 
service." 

With a cry of delight, the child — ■ for she seemed no more 
— threw her arms around my neck. Was I to blame for fold- 



198 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

ing her closely there and kissing the red mouth so temptingly 
offered to me? Was I to blame for listening to the tender 
" My dear, dear Loll/' and returning it time and again, empha- 
sized by kisses, with " My dear, darling Pet ? " I dare say I was, 
but I don't think the most rigid disciplinarian of a monastery 
could have been proof against the Evil One if he had chosen such 
a shape to tempt. 

" Come in — come into the light," said Pet. " I want to 
see how you are changed, cousin Loll." 

" It seems I am a cousin, then," I said, sotto voce. 

So, because I couldn't help myself, I was pulled into the little 
warm parlor by those rose-tipped fingers, and, as I thought, to 
the verge of ruin. 

" Why," said Pet, carefully surveying me from head to foot, 
" you are very much changed, Cousin Loll. Your eyes are 
darker than they were, and that huge beard makes all the dif- 
ference in the world in your face. Did you get that in the 
army?" 

As I hope to be forgiven, I said " Yes." 

" Why, Loll," and here the little witch laughed — " your feet 
haven't grown any smaller. Have they ? But then, you know, 
you're not so short yourself, so they don't look so very terribly 
large." 

" Has your ladyship finished your criticism ? " I said, assum- 
ing an ease I was far from feeling, and putting one arm around 
her as I spoke. " If so, we will have a quiet, sensible chat. 
Sit down here, Pet." 

Laughing and blushing, she escaped from my arms and sat 
down, saying, half pleased, half provoked : 

" You're the same Loll yet. Aren't you ? How are Annie 
and the babies ? " 

" All right," I replied. " How are your folks ? " 

Pet's face shadowed. I knew the meaning of that black line 
about that letter. 

" Mama and Kate and Clara are well," she said. " But, oh 
Loll, haven't you heard ? " 

" No," I said, soberly ; and she, looking through tears, an- 
swered me: 

" Papa is dead — has been dead a year. And you have never 
heard it?" 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 199 

Saddened because the sunshine had gone out of Pet's face, I 
asked : 

"How did he die?" 

It was a simple question, but the child burst into a passion 
of tears, crying : 

" Oh, Loll, could, could you ask that ? " 

I knew then that I had stepped on forbidden ground. 

" I did not know, darling, but I will not ask. Won't you 
forgive me the fault ? " 

At my caresses, Pet smiled again, and I changed the topic. 

With that peculiar childishness which I had first seen in the 
face, and since continually noticed in her actions, the tears dried 
themselves from her eyes as readily as the smiles had gone, and 
she was again happy, though smiling a little sadly, like sunshine 
seen through mist. 

" Why don't you ask where the family are \ " she said, sauc- 
ily. " You used to like Clara best, you know." 

" Well, I didn't know it," I responded, with intense thank- 
fulness that I could, at least, tell one truth. " But where are 
the family i " 

" Gone to hear the lecture. I didn't feel like going, so I 
concluded to stay alone." 

I sat and talked to Pet for an hour after this, gave her a 
sketch of my military experience (purely imaginary), excused 
myself for unanswered letters on the ground of irregular mails 
and hospital regulations ; and, finally, holding her two hands in 
mine, kissed her good night, magnanimously refusing to stay 
until the family came home, on the plea of an important en- 
gagement, but promising to call again on the following day, and 
take my fair cousin sleigh-riding. As I left the house, I turned 
and saw my little Pet standing in the moonlight. A ray, yel- 
low and flickering, from the parlor lights, stole through the open 
door, and fell on her soft pale curls, and she stood before me a 
vision of beauty and innocence, which I shall never forget. 

" Wake me by no gesture — sound of breath or stir of vesture, 
Let the bless'd apparition melt not yet to its divine. 
No approaching hush, no breathing, or my heart must swoon to death in 
The too utter life thou bringest, O thou dream of Geraldine! " 

Almost mechanically, I repeated the words, looking at the 



200 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

vision which had, starlike, arisen npon the desolate darkness of 
my life ; and then, as the door closed on her, shutting her from 
my sight, and me from her sweet presence, I, having nothing 
to lose and all to gain, resolved to think no more about it, but to 
see the tragedy or comedy, as it might be, to its close. So the 
curtain fell on the first act, and so I, who knew nothing of 
acting, became an actor. 

The next day, as I had promised, I took my way to 65 Clinton 
Street. I drove a gay team; and the day was charmingly pro- 
ductive of good spirits, clear and cold, with a still air, in which 
one's voice rang out like a bell, and a blue sky overhead, flecked 
with white clouds, like a sea of violets, with here and there, a 
drift of snow, which had not as yet melted from the hedges. 
I must confess to a little sinking of the heart as I touched the 
knocker, and a great fear and trembling as I heard steps ap- 
proaching ; but, to my great surprise, neither Mama or Kate or 
Clara opened the door for me, but my little Pet. She greeted 
me coyly. The twilight was not there to lend her boldness, and 
flushed beneath my cousinly kiss like a blushrose. I met 
Mama, Kate, and Clara, as pleasant a group as one would wish 
to see. 

" Here he is, mama," announced Pet, and immediately the 
lady in deep mourning arose and welcomed me, kissing me on 
both cheeks, and saying, softly : 

"lam glad to see thee, Tollman. Is thee quite well ? " 

Clara, a tall regal girl, older, I thought than Pet — arose, 
with a flush on her cheek but greeted me coldly, even distrust- 
ingly ; but little Kate climbed to my knee, and talked to her 
Cousin Tollman with childish abandon. 

" How much you are altered, Tollman ! " said Clara. " I 
should never have known you." 

" How splendidly you are altered, my cousin ! " I responded. 
" I should never have known you." 

Clara lifted her eyes and searched my face; but I bore the 
scrutiny bravely, returning the look with one of cousinly pride 
in her beauty. 

" Did thee leave Annie and the babies all well ? " asked the 
elderly lady, to which I replied : 

" Quite well ; and Annie sent her love to you all," mentally 



EAKLY PEOSE WOEKS 201 

vowing that, if I were out of that scrape, I'd never get into an- 
other. Pet came to my relief by saying: 

" Mama, you and Cousin Loll can talk all your news at 
tea. I want my ride now. For once, Miss Carrie, I'll have 
your beau." 

At this light badinage, a look of pain, instantly suppressed, 
passed over Clara's fine face ; and I guessed that Clara's heart 
was more to the real Cousin Lollman than all the other hearts 
in the world. I knew, too, that she thought me changed, and 
would not for her life show any lingering love for her cousin. 

Obeying the imperious little " Pet," I kissed them all 'round, 
and promised to go back to tea, and tossed " Pet " into the cut- 
ter, obeying the good mother's command of " Wrap Minnie up 
warmly, Lollman, for she is a fragile little thing," in the most 
literal sense. 

Of course, we had a most delightful ride, and the sun was 
quite down when I took my Pet from the sleigh, and led her into 
the home-parlor. 

I stayed to tea ; I answered all their inquiries as best I could, 
pleading my absence in the army as an excuse for ignorance, and 
being at least, an imaginative man, so interested them with de- 
scriptions of my camp-life and doings, with camp anecdotes 
and stories, that they forgot to cross-question, when such would 
have been my ruin. 

After that, I went often to the house of my new-found aunt. 
Day after day, I took " Pet " sleighing, and sometimes little 
Kate but Clara invariably refused. I do not think she doubted 
my identity ; but I know she, loving the other Lollman, missed 
in me what she had learned to love in him. 

So time passed. March came, with its mild, sunny whispers 
of the coming spring, and bevies of blue-birds, and still I lin- 
gered in Washington, neglecting my business entirely in my 
pursuit after the greater riches of a love which seemed daily 
stooping closer to me — drawing my soul upward as the moon 
draws the sea. I, so secure in my love, did not often fret about 
the other Lollman, who might, by some possibility, step in and 
rob me of my cousinship, until one beautiful moonlight night 
I had a realizing proof of his existence. 

We were sitting in the parlor, Aunt reading her Bible, as 



202 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

was her wont before retiring; Clara bent over some fleecy 
woman's work; Katie lying on the floor, half burying in her 
sunny curls the large, black Newfoundland dog, which Pet told 
me had been Lollman' s gift to Clara, adding: 

" How strange that he has forgotten you. Loll." 
And Pet and I were together in a shadow of the corner, talk- 
ing as only those can talk who have grown to be unconsciously 
of themselves, it may be, all in all to each other. 

Sitting so quiet and happy, the great dog suddenly sprang 
from Katie's embracing arms, with a cry of joy, and flew to 
the door. Just then, the knocker announced a visitor. 

Clara, pale and rigid as a white lily, arose and opened the 
door, quieting the dog with a touch of her hand and a word. 
Pet and I, sitting in the corner of the room facing the front 
door, could see the guest the moment he stepped into the hall. 
He was a tall man, with a fine, noble face, which was deathly 
pale, and very thin; and, alas! as he entered, we saw he had 
lost one limb. The dog, with a low cry, sprang up; but the 
man, putting him down, though gently, as though he could not 
be other than gentle even to a dog, opened his arms to Clara, 
saying, almost under bis breath : 

" Clara, my darling Clara." 

Ah, her woman's heart was not to be deceived. There was 
no coldness, no distrust, now. With a perfect content softening 
both face and voice, she welcomed her true cousin, Lollman, 
and — as I knew from the looks of her face — her more than 
cousin. 

They lingered but a moment in the hall, but in that moment 
Minnie had sprung from my side in bewilderment, and her 
mama was at the door, followed by Kate. 

The poor soldier came in then, but stopped as he noticed the 
astonished faces. 

" Aunt Clara ? " he said, mournfully, " Pet, Katie, have you 
no welcome? I could not write you the sad news, but surely 
some of you will welcome me." 

" Lollman," said Clara's ringing tones, as she pointed to 
me, standing alone. " You have that vile imposter to thank for 
your slack welcome. They cannot understand what my heart 
has told me all the time — that he is a cheat." 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 203 

Then I stood forward, and Pet going to me, stood by my 
side. 

" He is no cheat," she cried impulsively, " are you, Loll ? " 

" What is all this ? " asked Aunt. 

And I answered, speaking slowly: 

" It is simply this. I am not your nephew, nor the cousin 
of these dear girls, though my name is Lollman Barker; and 
I am, as Clara has said (in this one thing) an imposter." 

Then I told them how it all happened, and of my lonely life, 
and little Pet pleaded for me excuses which her dear, childish 
heart thought were unanswerable. 

The real Lollman Barker did not miss his welcome from his 
aunt and cousins ; and, like the happy man he was, seeing him- 
self in the light which illumined Clara's face, knowing that a 
shattered limb, lost in the right cause, lost him no dearer treas- 
ure, he came generously to my assistance, declared himself ac- 
quainted with the firm of which I was partner, and fully forgave 
me an offence which was not easy of forgiveness. 

So Aunt Clara, because of his and Pet's intercession, because 
of Katie's looks and the happy look in Clara's eyes, forgave me 
my sin, and when, some months afterward, there was a double 
wedding, and with darling Pet's hand in mine, I asked her bless- 
ing, she gave it truly, saying, in her soft voice : 

" The Lord bless and preserve ye, my children, and cause 
the light of His countenance to shine upon ye." 

And thus far in life's journey the Lord has blessed us and pre- 
served us, and the light of His countenance has shone upon us. 
Thus far in life the sweet visions which I saw that first night 
at 65 Clinton Street has repeated itself in the fireside glow of my 
own home, and the dear face of my child-wife is to me starlight, 
firelight, and moonlight. 

As for the other Lollman Barker, though a lame man and an 
invalid, I do not see how he could well be happier ; and he says 
he could have forgiven a greater delay in the note for the sake of 
such joy; and Clara, unshadowed as yet by the shadow that we 
know must fall, keeps her heart and her face in sunshine, for the 
strengthening of him — poor fragile plant — who shall never 
more be wholly strong until he blooms anew in the light of 
Heaven. Mama, and Katie, and even Tray are content. 



204 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

So the letter which miscarried was, after all, well carried; 
and, with my darling by my side, I bless the sin and cheat which 
won for me so dear a treasure. Truly. 



There is a divinity which shapes our ends, 
Rough hew them as we may." 



April 28, 1866. 



GKACE'S THANKSGIVING 

Clear and calm and cold " Thanksgiving " dawned. It had 
snowed all night, and the soft flakes had only ceased to fall 
with the rising of early day. Like a fair child wrapped in 
soft laces and velvets, the pure earth lay in the smiling sunshine, 
and every tree and shrub blossomed anew in snowy blossoms, 
which frail and fleeting hung pale and quivering upon their 
tender stems. Surely the sun never smiled more brightly nor 
the cloudless sky shone more benignantly upon merry New 
England than it did upon that chill November-morning. A 
thousand homes were garnished outward in token of their inner 
joy ; a thousand hearts, flower-like, lifted their grateful incense 
to high Heaven. 

Alone, in the great old farmhouse which had aforetime been 
so merry with the children's voices and so happy with the chil- 
dren's faces, Grace Wright kept Thanksgiving. She arose just 
as the amber sun set itself like a gem above the snow-capped 
mountains in its amethystine setting; and the first thought she 
had was of her utter loneliness. Among them all — the chil- 
dren to whom she had been as a mother — not one of them had 
bidden her come to them for the celebration of that day. They 
had gone from the home-nest like young birds, and never had a 
thought for the lonely mother-bird who yet lingered. But 
Grace's tender heart — more tender perhaps, from being bruised 
— framed for them all excuses ; and when she knelt in prayer 
their names were on her lips. She sat down by the window ; and 
from the scene without, her thoughts passed to the other days 
when she had seen Thanksgiving. Like a dream the years 
passed in review before her, and those Thanksgiving days which 
had set their seal to each of them. 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 205 

From the first that she could recollect, when her father had 
carried her in his arms and placed her proudly in her high-chair 
by his side ; one after all she told them all, as does the devotee his 
beads. What a marvel that table was to her, set out in the glow 
of the afternoon sun; how long and prosy her father's blessing 
seemed to her childish impatience, and how she wished her fa- 
ther would merely say, " Thank you, father," as she did to him 
when she was grateful; then how delicious the dinner! From 
this first remembrance her mind spanned a dozen such, when 
cheery faces and happy hearts made full of sunshine and 
Thanksgiving day a day of lifting up of hearts in truth. 

Then came one — ah ! how well she remembered that ! how 
it stood out like a finger-post from the dimness of the past ! 
She was to be a bride upon that day. Young and gay and 
happy. Grace Wright had no thought but that her heart in its 
deepest gratitude should bow down ; but this was not to be. 

Thanksgiving came and for the first time no holly decked 
the walls, no dinner was prepared, for a vacant chair stood 
among them, speaking dumbly of the one who had gone out 
from the home-group. Oh, surely, in that house of prayer the 
lintels and the doorposts were sprinkled with the sacrificial 
blood, and yet the angel passed not over. He paused; he 
entered ; and at his mute call, one, the ripest for heaven, rose 
and followed him, and left a home in darkness because of her 
presence gone. That day made the heart of Grace a woman's 
heart, and set the seal of care upon her brow. She who was to 
have been a bride took up her cross, strong in the strength of 
God, and with firm hand put aside from her the hopes of her 
youth. Not without tears, not without regret ; for life had 
glowed and brightened at her approaching footsteps, until she 
dreamed that cares were pleasures, its roses thornless. 

Poor Grace ! Her woman's heart asked pityingly for herself, 
and yet not selfishly. She shut out from her thoughts the one 
who was to have been her bridegroom ; how her heart leaped at 
the memory of him after the lapse of all these years, and turned 
to the poor stricken father and the motherless children who 
looked to her for comfort. How like a dream it seemed ! That 
day when she lifted the babe from its cradle to her bosom, and 
vowed to devote her life to these children. 



206 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

There were five of them, and Grace was but fifteen ; but she 
was old enough to walk unshrinkingly in the path of duty. 
After this, one after another Thanksgiving days crowned the 
autumns, until once again the house was shadowed. The fa- 
ther laid aside his labors, for to him " the night had come 
wherein no man can work/' and over the beseeching of his white 
face Grace had drawn the doubly-orphaned children closer to 
her heart, and consecrated her young life anew to their service. 
She was young then. Before her spread a broad, beautiful 
life, redolent of pleasure, but her tender feet clung rather to 
the rugged path made sunny by the smile of God. Once more 
her heart waged fearful war with itself. Her lover came again 
to plead his cause ; but she knew that here were conflicting du- 
ties; and her heart bruised, bleeding, and conquered, bowed 
before her stronger duty. Then Grace suffered. The sight 
of those careless faces was almost hateful to her. She could 
not bear the clamor of their voices; but her heart would 
smite her for the feeling, and gentler patience did atonement for 
the wrong done them in her thoughts. Another Thanksgiving, 
and the sea rolled between Grace and her lover. Her feet were 
set unshrinkingly in the path she had marked out for them to 
tread. Since then, one by one, the little family had grown 
up and gone from the hpme-nest. Three were married, Charlie 
was at college, and the babe in the cradle had lifted up its baby- 
arms to its angel-mother and been taken up. So Grace was 
alone in the house, and among the little family she had reared 
not one had bade her come to them. But she would not think of 
that — would not, and still tears were in her eyes. In spite of 
her, " alone and friendless " smote her heart at thirty-five. 

A knock at the door startled her. Not waiting for a bidding, 
the door opened, and Candace, the maid-of -all- work, companion 
and friend of Grace, pushed her woolly head into the room. 

" If you please, Miss Grace," she said, with the familiarity of 
an old and favored servant, " I'd like to know hows old Mrs. 
Burke's goin' to git her Thanksgivin' ef you don't take it to her, 
and Johnny O'Toole his cake, and Jimmy his blocks. ISTow, 
Miss Grace, don't you go to a flutterin', honey; come down to 
your breakfas' and den go to yer errends, and yer heart 'ill feel 
thanksgivin'. See ef it don't." 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 207 

Candace withdrew. Her homely, but approving words smote 
Grace's tender heart. This poor, friendless, black woman could 
be more grateful than she ; nay, could point out her duty. She 
sank slowly to her knees, and when at length she arose and 
passed downstairs, it was as though an angel had stirred the wa- 
ters of her soul and left its radiant glory on her face. No more 
repining now, no more weary heartaches. Old Candace won- 
dered at the holy calm settled upon her face as she came in, and 
muttered to herself " Saint Grace." 

The simple meal concluded, Grace, cloaked and hooded, 
started out upon her errand of mercy, saying to Candace as 
she went: 

"We'll have no Thanksgiving dinner to-day, Candace, but 
we'll keep Thanksgiving in our hearts." 

44 The Lord bless you, Miss Grace," responded the old negress, 
fervently. " May the Lord bless ye and make the light of his 
count'nance shine upon ye." 

Out in the sunshine went Grace, with the simple hearty bless- 
ing folding about her like a warm garment, and the bracing 
air breathed in her lungs renewed and quickened life. She 
had scarcely turned the corner of the lane when suddenly from 
an opposite direction the merry sound of sleighbells woke the 
echoes in the quiet lane, and the ringing of the horses' hoofs as 
they struck the crusty snow announced visitors to the lonely old 
farmhouse. One, two, three, four sleighs full of rosy faces 
and ruddy noses which Jack Frost had nipped with mischiev- 
ous fingers. What a merry party! As they dashed up to the 
door, Old Candace clapped her hands with delight. How the 
occupants tumbled pell mell from the warm shelter of the buf- 
falo robes out into the snow like rosy winter apples, late in 
falling. There were Hannah and her husband and three lit- 
tle Hannahs ; George and his wife and two little Georges exactly 
alike ; Mary and her husband and the baby ; Charlie, the gay, 
young collegian, the darling of all; and a tall handsome man, 
with somewhat of care upon his brow, and a little frost upon 
his beard which the frost had not put there. 

How that old house overflowed with mirth and happiness ; 
how childish voices made the old rafters ring, and childish feet 
awoke the sleeping echoes. They were all there ; and Hannah, 



208 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

by virtue of age and goaheadativeness, assumed control. She 
sent her husband to hide the sleighs in the capacious old shed, 
and to care for the horses, and then began the day's labor. 

" I declare/' said Hannah, laughing, " We all stopped at 
the turning until she started, and we thought she never would go. 
I never knew Grace to feel so lazy before. Did she feel badly 
this morning, Candace ? " 

" 'Deed, Miss Hannah," said Candace, " she did dat ting. 
I was on the p'int of tellin' her half a dozen times, but she rose 
above it, Missis, an' when she went out her face was as calm 
and as happy as de sky." 

Hannah — laughing, chatting, bustling Hannah — led on her 
troupe of co-laborers. The rooms blossomed out in evergreens 
and mountain-ash flamed from every vase, and pretty mottoes, 
set in spruce, spanned the windows. Then the table; surely 
Pandora's box freshly opened could not have let more good 
things escape than did those sleighs. Turkeys borne trium- 
phantly to the kitchen-stove and tender mercies of Candace; 
hams pink and plump, blooming out in spots of salt and pepper ; 
pickles which might have been carved from emeralds and coral 
for color ; fleecy, light white rolls ; golden cakes, and fresh, cool, 
yellow butter; pies, pumpkin, mince, cranberry, and lemon; a 
great plum-pudding; and, in fact, all the delicious dainties 
which a New England kitchen alone can produce. It seemed 
there was no end to the storing powers of those inexhaustible 
sleighs. Candace, a good creature, went about her work with 
tears of gladness rolling unchecked down her cheeks. It was 
like making another world from chaos, to reduce house, guests, 
and table to order; but, by some necromancy, it was accom- 
plished, and Hannah, resting her plump hands on her hips, sur- 
veyed the apartment with a complacent smile. She had shut 
out the last-fading daylight, and lamps shone from every niche. 

" Isn't it gay ? " asked Mary, lifting up the baby to see the 
table. " Say ? I should say so." 

The snowy damask, garnished with leaves and berries, and 
the poetry of the feast ; Jellies white, and amber, and purple ; 
pyramids of candies, and grapes, and cakes; rosy apples and 
snowy riceballs ; its prose fully represented by the brown, tempt- 
turkeys, and the plump, saucy, little pig, wading up to his 
knees in fresh parsley, and making off with a lemon. 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 209 

" It's all right/' said Hannah, sighing with relief, as though 
a load of care were taken off her shoulders. " And there comes 
Grace. Charlie, stop chattering. Let's form a tableau. 
Here, Captain John," to the grave gentleman, " you must be in 
the background, so as not to startle her too much. Children, 
you stand here, Mary and George. All ready ! ISTow, Candace, 
when she comes, you can open the door for the tableau." 

Instantly the noisy voices ceased, the merry clatter of feet 
hushed, and Candace, looking at the scene, wondered if in the 
heavens there could be a prettier. 

Grace was in the hall. They could hear her voice as Candace 
stepped out. 

" Well, Candace, here I am, as cold as can be ; but you 
ought to have seen how happy old Mrs. Burke was, and Johnny, 
and all of them. I declare my heart's full. I wonder if all 
the dear children are happy to-day. I hope so." 

Happy ! Every one of the dear children was in tears because 
of happiness. 

She was at the door. It opened, and the brilliant scene burst 
upon her astonished eyes. The gay festoons quivering in the 
brilliant lights. The beautiful table set for the feast, the pretty 
mottoes speaking so lovingly to the heart, and above all, that 
dear, loving group, with the merry children in the foreground, 
and the grave, manly face of Captain John, shining upon her 
from the shadow of the curtains. 

The tableau proved itself vivant in about one moment after 
Grace stood before it with her shining face. And then what a 
greeting there was ! How she was carried around, and kissed, 
and petted, and scolded ; and how her tears fell even on Charlie's 
brown curls, because she was so happy. And all this time 
Captain John kept in the shadow. 

" I thought such naughty thoughts of you all," cried Grace, 
in loving atonement, " and now I must go off by myself and 
cry. Oh, my blessed children, my darlings ! " 

" Hurry along then, Grace ; for dinner's ready," said matter- 
of-fact Hannah. And Grace went. 

Going out, she encountered old Candace. She wrung her 
hand, merely saying through her tears, " Oh, the blessed chil- 
dren ! " And then went on. 



210 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Once alone, Grace did not sit down to cry out her joy. She 
was constitutionally opposed to that; but her full heart must 
have an outlet, and it rose in fervent thanksgiving. She knelt, 
and bowing her face in her hands, blessed God who had given her 
such a joyous day. Suddenly she felt an arm thrown about her, 
and she knew some one was kneeling by her side. It had been 
an old trick of Charlie's in his boyhood to kneel by her side, so 
she simply pressed closer to his side, and said: 

" Together, dear one, let us bless God ! " 

" Ay, together, dear one, let us bless God ! " responded a deep, 
manly voice, which was not Charlie's, but which was yet dearer 
than his. 

At the voice, Grace started, and, with a low cry, was folded in 
a tender embrace. 

" Grace, my darling," said Captain John, " the little birds 
are out of the nest now, will you come to me ? Have I not had 
patience ? Will you not give me its reward ? " 

And Grace, smiling peacefully, did not refuse the reward 
pledged so long ago, in the first happy days of auld lang syne. 

" Dinner, dinner, dinner ! " sang out Charlie's cheery voice. 
" Come, Mother Gracie, to grace the feast." 

Surely a happier, merrier, rosier, hungrier group never sat 
down to a table, and when accidentally ( ?) a wreath of orange- 
blossoms — found in one of those inexhaustible sleighs, we sup- 
pose — dropped upon Grace's bowed head, the house rang out 
with applause. 

And so to Grace came joy, and peace, and rest, and — and a 
good thanksgiving dinner, which the young collegian declared 
was best of all. 

But Captain John, glancing up at the dear face opposite, said 
suddenly and gravely : 

" Ah, Charlie, there is something better yet. You know it 
all. The angel face made a sunshine in a shady place." 

New York, Saturday, May 26, 1866. 



EARLY PKOSE WOKKS 211 



PRUE'S KUSE 



" Oh, Prue ! Prue ! I can't let you do it, so don't ask me." 

Prue put her trim little mouth in trim for smiling, and said : 

" Why not, Amos ? There's no harm in it." 

" No," he replied, with a half sigh. " I don't know as there 
is ; but people will make harm of such things very often. Never 
mind, Prue. I'll be well by-and-by, and we must pinch as well 
as we can until then." 

" Pinch ! Pinch ! " croaked up a wrinkled-up old woman, 
shivering over the stove. " It's nothing but pinch and save, and 
save and pinch. You envy me the bit I eat, and the bed I sleep 
in; for, the matter o' that, you'd be welcome to it, since it's 
an old creaky thing, not fit for a slave. Oh me! me! that I 
should ever live to be treated so by Lizzie's children ! I wish 
I was dead and gone." 

" I'm not going to pinch you, grandmother," screamed Prue ; 
for the old lady's ears were only good for catching words which 
she should not hear. " You shall have all you want, Amos," 
with a pretty determined bend of the brows. " I'm going." 

The sick man with his white face on the pillow, replied: 
" No, no ! Prue, I can't let you ! You make me miserable to 
talk of it. Just wait, dear, till I can get about again." 

Prue shook her shining brown head in a little determined 
way, which might mean a great deal or nothing at all ; but which, 
in this instance, certainly did mean, translated into prose, for 
the motion was poetic, " I'll do as I've a mind to do, sir." 

She said no more, but stitched away busily at the delicate 
marvel of cambric and lace; and Amos, with unhappy eyes, 
watched her swift needle passing in and out of her work, keeping 
time to the merry little tunes which flashed from her lips. 

" Oh, dear ! " he said at length, with a deep sigh, " I wish 
I was a thread, Prue, so that you could work me into some sort 
of paying shape." 

" Better wish to be Prue, so that you could work somebody 
else into paying shape," said Prue, laughing. 

Again a long silence, unbroken until Amos said : 

" Come, Prue, I wish you'd dress this limb." , 



212 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" In a minute, Amos. Just wait until I get this bud made." 

" First the limb and then the bud/ 7 said Amos, punning upon 
the names. " I never heard of it being reversed." 

" In that case, I shall have to attend to the limb." 

So Prue laid aside her work, and began dressing her poor 
brother's crushed foot and ankle. He had been crushed in some 
machinery, and the wounds were long in healing ; but he waited 
patiently, hoping for health; and in the meantime, penny by 
penny, Prue saw her slender stock of money decreasing, until, 
alarmed lest the wolf should stand at the door, she took work 
from an embroidery-store, without Amos' s knowledge however, 
and so her weak fingers increased their slender store. She was 
so cheerful and happy, withal, so free from discontent, that 
when she finished binding his limb, Amos laid his hand half 
tenderly on her head and said : 

" You're a good girl, Prue ! " 

" Am I ? " she replied. " What new proof of my goodness 
have I just given now ? " 

, " Just now % Why, giving up your plan when you had set 
your heart on it, without a word of complaint." 

Prue's face flushed, and she did not once lift it up as she 
replied : 

" We must humor invalids, you know. Wait until you are 
about again, and then I'll have my own way. Now I must take 
Kate's apron to her; so lie down, like a good boy, and keep 
grandmother company till I come back." 

" Why don't Kate make her own aprons ? " growled Amos. 
" Does she think you're a seamstress, I wonder ? " 

" Not at all. But you see, Amos, she wanted the apron and 
I wanted the dollar, so we made a fair exchange. She's a rela- 
tive, so you needn't frown. I'm sure I'm glad to have some- 
thing to do ; but I must run upstairs and get ready now, so au 
revoir." 

With a sunshiny face, Prue went up to her room to prepare 
for her trip; and presently a little thrill of half-suppressed 
laughter ran trickling down the stairs, so clear and glad and 
infectious, that Amos laughed in spite of himself, and old 
grandmother rubbed her bony hands together and chuckled. 
Again and again came the musical laughter flashing in and out 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 213 

of the room, bursting irrepressibly from its restraint, until 
Amos, unable to endure his isolation from so much fun, called 
out : 

" Prue ! Prue ! What's the fun ? Do tell me." 

" Oh," shouted Prue between her peals of laughter, " there's 
the funniest little mouse up here. You'd die laughing at it ! " 

" Bring it down, Prue. There's nothing laughable in a 
mouse." 

" Oh, I can't catch it ! " said Prue, in return, " but it's the 
funniest little gray hunchbacked creature. Oh dear, I've 
laughed until I'm near crying ! " 

A few moments after, a little demure old lady stepped briskly 
out the front door of Prue Clifford's home. She was dressed in 
plain Quaker dress and bonnet, and seemed such a sweet moth- 
erly old lady, that you could not help feeling an inclination to 
throw your arms around her and tell her all your secrets — 
such a neat, clean, sweet old lady, that you instinctively loved 
that quiet face looking out from the snowy cap-border. There 
was a dash of laughter in the brown eyes and on the pale lips ; 
but even this faded away as she ascended the marble steps of 
a handsome house standing out boldly from the neighboring 
houses. Her timid ring was answered by a pompous servant, 
who completely shaded the little drab lady in his pomposity. 

" Can I see Mr. Leithwait ? " she asked, in a quiet, gentle lit- 
tle voice. 

" Engaged," answered the servant, insolently, half closing the 
door. 

" Tell him that a lady has come to engage as governess," re- 
plied the lady, in a tone which somehow awed the man, as he 
replied : 

" Oh, in that case you can walk in the library. You're the 
tenth one to-day." 

He preceded her down the long hall, and, opening a door at 
the far end, said: 

" What name ? " 

" Mrs. Prue. 

Then he announced her, and the little old lady found herself 
in the twilight richness of Mr. Leithwait's library. Books and 
statuary and flowers all united to render the room attractive, 



214 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

and the singing birds swung in gilded cages to their own sweet 
music. Mrs. Prue took all this in at a glance, also that there 
were two occupants in the room — a handsome man, with lines 
of care about his brow, and a coarse-looking Englishwoman, 
dressed in mourning. 

" Sit down, Mrs. Prue," said the gentleman, smiling; and 
Mrs. Prue wondered at the beauty of that smile. 

" Mrs. Hobbs," he said to the Englishwoman, " are you com- 
petent to teach French, music, and English ? " 

" Hi can teach Hinglish, sir," was the reply. 

He smiled again. 

" Oh, you'll never do. I must have the other qualifications 
too. Good morning, Madam ! " 

The Englishwoman, who had ruined her fortunes by the 
great prodigality in the use of her H's, passed sullenly from the 
room, and Mr. Leithwait turned toward the latest comer. 

" I saw by the advertisement," said Mrs. Prue, " that thee 
wishes for a governess who must not be under forty years of 
age; and I being in great need for such a situation, came to 
thee." 

She spoke with the most quiet self-possession, but her cow- 
ardly little heart was beating a perfect tattoo against her bosom 
lest she should not suit. 

" Can you teach French and music ? " asked Mr. Leithwait, 
resigning himself at once to the charm of her quiet manners. 

" I have studied both for many years," replied Mrs. Prue. 
" I shall endeavor to please thee if thee does not object to my 
persuasion." 

" Oh, not at all ; my mother was a Quaker." 

" I am glad to hear thee say so. I can bring thee references 
if thee wishes." 

Mr. Leithwait was a man of impulse. He looked into Mrs. 
Prue's quiet face and decided instantly. 

" "No matter for those. I have three children, and I require 
six hours a day to be spent in the schoolroom. The salary is 
five hundred a year." 

" Five hundred a year ! " Mrs. Prue's face flushed and her 
eyes brightened. She had not hoped for that. 

" Of course," said the gentleman, " I pay monthly. Are you 
willing to accept the charge % " 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 215 

" Yes, certainly ; and I thank thee for the liberal terms." 

" When can you come ? " 

" To-morrow, if thee wishes." 

" Very well, it's settled then. Stay a moment, Mrs. Prue, 
and I'll show you your pupils." Mr. Leithwait rang the bell, 
and almost instantly childish voices and pattering feet were 
heard along the hall, the door burst open, and the children 
rushed in pell mell, unheeding his rebuking " Gently, gently, 
young savages " — such a trio of happy faces as one does not 
often see in a city. As the children discovered the strange lady, 
they hushed their noisy clatter, and stood bashfully awaiting 
an introduction, the little girl hiding behind her curls, the boys 
making an effort to look manly. 

" This is your governess, Lillie," he said to the little girl. 
" Mrs. Prue, this is my little daughter, and my two sons, Charles 
and Henry." 

Mrs. Prue held out her hand to them ; and, won by the kind- 
ness of her smile, each child in turn placed their trusting little 
hands in hers. 

" They have been sadly neglected, poor children," said Mr. 
Leithwait. " I have had so many young governesses, and they 
have all proved inefficient. The last one I had ran off with 
my butler, hence my advertisement for an elderly person. You 
will find these young savages sad romps, I am afraid, Mrs. 
Prue." 

" Thee loves sport, does thee, dear ? " asked Mrs. Prue, smil- 
ing upon Lillie. " That is natural ; the young should be gay 
and happy." 

" Then we shall expect to see you to-morrow morning at nine 
o'clock ? " said Mr. Leithwait, and the interview was over. 

An hour after, Prue Clifford went down from her room de- 
murely enough, and prepared to set the tea table. 

" Where have you been, Prue ? " asked Amos. 

" Oh, I've been everywhere," said Prue, animatedly. " I've 
seen the greatest amount of funny things. Amanda Gail's out 
in a lemon-colored shawl. Only think — and she had no gloves 
on, but every finger wore diamonds. I do think that oil runs 
to diamonds, as naturally as sparks fly upwards." 

"Did you see Kate?" 



216 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" Yes, and I've to go there at nine every morning, and stay 
until evening; so grandmother you'll have to get dinner. I'll 
get it already for you to put on the table though." 

" Me git dinner," growled the old lady. " Ain't it just as 
I said? Don't they make a slave and a kitchen slave on me. 
Git dinner indeed ! When I was a gal I'd as soon a thought 
of cuttin' off my hand as askin' my grandmother to git dinner." 

Here the old lady burst into a passion of tears, and rocked 
to and fro in distress. 

Amos knit his brows. 

" Kate must be careful," he said. " My sister doesn't hire 
out." 

Prue put her pretty hand over his lips. 

" Hush ! " she said, playfully. " Kate is a dear good girl, 
and if I can assist her I shall do it. Clara wants a teacher 
now, and prefers her ' aunt Prue,' so I am in office as teacher. 
Now, Amos, put aside that ugly frown; for its far, far better 
to earn money honorably and enjoy it than to starve. We need 
money, brother, and here's a way open; so don't groan in that 
doleful way and shut your eyes, or I shall at once administer 
some rhubarb." 

" I suppose it's got to be," he said, dubiously. " At any 
rate, it's better than that terrible thought you had awhile ago. 
I declare, Prue, I've been thinking ever since about it. Why, 
you shouldn't do it if both grandmother and I starved." 

" Of course it's got to be," said Prue, replying to the first 
part of his sentence. " But here, let me prop you up for tea — 
there, that's comfortable — come, grandmother, here's tea, draw 
up your chair." 

" Oh, oh, oh," groaned the old lady. " That it's come to 
me bein' called after my own grandson, and bein' told to ' draw 
up me cheer,' while me granddaughter never turns her hand. 
I wish to the gracious I was dead and gone, I do." 

Days and weeks passed by, and Mr. Leithwait's gentle little 
Quaker governess continued to give the most perfect satisfaction. 
The children loved her and obeyed her accordingly. They 
were by no means angels — children never are excepting in 
books — but being healthy and happy and rosy, full of life and 
love, they were upon the whole very good children, and nestled 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 217 

closely to the heart of the governess. Mr. Leithwait was de- 
lighted. He liked the quiet ways of the demure little old lady, 
and fell into the habit of occasionally dropping into the school- 
room to hear the children's recitations. On one occasion he 
happened to be there during the children's recreation-hour. 
The room was vacant ; so he took his paper and quietly ensconced 
himself behind the heavy curtains of the bay-window to await the 
reassembling. He was deeply engrossed in reading, when sud- 
denly a light quick step aroused him. It was too elastic and 
rapid for the gentle, slow step of Mrs. Prue; too regular and 
determined for any of the children. He was just on the point 
of ascertaining the intruder when a sweet gay voice rang out: 

" Oh, you beauty, I'll catch you. How dare you come into a 
musty old schoolroom." 

Then indeed he did look; and what was his surprise to see 
demure little Mrs. Prue chasing a butterfly about the room, like 
a schoolgirl — her little form all a quiver with excitement, and 
her frilled white cap bobbed about like a snowflake in a strong 
breeze. Over stool and desk and chairs she sprang lightly, 
reaching laughingly after the little creature who seemed cun- 
ningly to lead her on. Mr. Leithwait shut his teeth hard to- 
gether, lest he should laugh outright at the spry old lady as she 
bobbed about, flashing her white neckerchief in every 
corner of the room but the bay-window. Probably the little 
butterfly did not like the dusky curtains but he finally, with 
a tantalizing flutter, opened his pretty sails in the blue deep of 
the sky, and Mrs. Prue, panting and exhausted, laughed to 
herself. 

" Oh, wouldn't it look funny to see me racing after that but- 
terfly in this dress ? I wish there'd been plenty of glasses in 
this room, so that I could have seen myself. Oh dear, I'm tired 
to death. Prue, Prue, who ever heard of a middle-aged Quaker 
lady chasing a butterfly and jumping over chair backs ? " 

A light step sounded; and nothing could be more unlike the 
quick, clear voice which had spoken than Mrs. Prue's gentle 
" Lillie, dear, hadn't thee better come to thy lesson now ? 
Where are Charles and Harry ? " 

" Coming," said Lillie_, " but, Mrs. Prue, how red your 
cheeks are, and vour eyes are just as bright. What makes 
them?" 



218 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

" The reflection from thine, perhaps," was the smiling answer. 

In the racket of the boys' reappearance as they came stamping 
in, Mrs. Prue did not observe Mr. Leithwait slipping silently 
out and it was not long afterward that she was aware that her 
undignified chase had been observed. That evening Mr. Leith- 
wait was guilty of following his governess home, and he was 
further guilty of stopping a few doors below and asking who 
lived in the brown frame house on the corner. 

" The Cliffords, sir," said his informant who happened to 
be a little inclined to gossip. " They're nice people in the 
main, sir, though Amos do hold his head a little higher'n there's 
any use for. He's a machinist, sir. Had his foot crushed some 
time since; and what with that and fever and sore throat, he 
ain't been out o' his bed for the matter o' four months. Just 
as soon as he gets well over one thing, another strikes in, and 
so it goes." 

" Are there many in the family ? " 

" Only him and his sister Prue and the old grandmother, 
who, I must say it, sir, if she's your own mother's born sister, 
which, I hope, she ain't, is the aggravatingest old imp and the 
Grossest old bag of bones 'at ever lived. Now, there's Prue. 
Why, she's a born angel, sir. I go in now and make their 
bread and sit with Amos ; for Prue's got something or other to 
keep her out the best part o' every day but Saturday, and I 
never heard her say a cross word to that old she, though I've 
been on the point o' shakin' her a dozen times, I do vow she's 
been that aggrevatin'." 

Having gleaned this information, Mr. Leithwait went home. 
After that evening, there was always a funny laugh in Mr. 
Leithwait's eyes when he looked at Mrs. Prue; and yet, did 
she happen to glance up, he was as grave as a bishop. He 
went oftener to the schoolroom, and began taking an interest 
in Lillie's music, more during her practise hour. And Mrs. 
Prue, her cheek grew to redden at his approach, and in spite 
of the powder (which she certainly used) would have a little 
sea-shell tint of pink. She grew more distant to him, and her 
gentle thee and thou were oftener addressed to the children 
than to him. But he took such an unbounded interest in the 
schoolroom and was there so much, that Mrs. Prue grew ac- 



EAKLY PKOSE WOKKS 219 

customed to him, and lost some light in her smile if he were 
missing. 

One evening — it was getting late — the children had been 
dismissed, and Mrs. Prue arose to don her bonnet and close 
school when Mr. Leithwait said : 

" Don't hurry, Mrs. Prue ; come look at this gorgeous sunset 
with me." 

" Thee knows it is getting late, and I must be going," said 
Mrs. Prue, advancing to the window as she donned her prim 
little shawl. " It is beautiful ; but I must say farewell or I shall 
be late." 

" I will see you home, Mrs. Prue." 

" ~No. I should dislike to inconvenience thee. I am not 
afraid." 

Mrs. Prue turned to leave the room, but a single word sud- 
denly arrested her. 

" Miss Clifford," — she started and turned — " sit down," he 
said more gently. " I know it all, the whole story, and believe 
me I was surprised to find so strong a heroine in the demure lit- 
tle Quakeress." 

Mrs. Prue buried her face in her hands, then impulsively 
burst out crying: 

" You think that I'm an artful, deceitful hypocrite. I 
know you do," she sobbed ; " and you're going to send me away 
as I ought to be sent, for I am not a hateful old Quakeress, 
and I wouldn't be for anything." 

She paused for want of breath, and Mr. Leithwait said : 

" My dear Miss Clifford, don't be alarmed, for I don't think 
anything of the kind ; and I'll never send you away if you 
will stay, for I have the highest regard for you as a woman 
and a teacher, and above all " (here Mr. Leithwait laughed a 
little) " do I appreciate your celerity and success in catching 
butterflies." 

Poor Prue ! That was too much. She was on the verge of 
a good cry, when suddenly the thought of the ludicrous picture 
she must have made occurred to her, and she laughed. Such 
a hearty, ringing laugh, that in its cadence all embarrassment 
died away, and she spoke calmly enough after a few moments. 

" It is due to myself and to you, Mr. Leithwait, to account 



220 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

so far as I can for this singular freak of mine. I will do so 
briefly. I needed money. There was no offer which promised 
so much remuneration as yours. I accepted, trusting to luck 
to prevent being discovered. Now that you have made the dis- 
covery, I at once resign my place ! " Ugh, removing her bon- 
net with disgust — " hateful old thing." Mr. Leithwait of- 
fered to see his quondam governess home, and I don't know 
how it was — whether the way was longer than usual, or they 
had taken the " long path," but certain it is, Amos was working 
himself in a fever at the long delay of his sister's return and 
the old grandmother was sobbing aloud, and declaring " that 
she alius told 'Lizy that child 'ud die young, and she knew jest 
as well as if she'd a seen it that she'd been stabbed and throwed 
in the river. She knew she was dead. Oh, oh, oh ! " when the 
door opened, and Amos saw, to his joy, Prue safe and un- 
harmed, but in such a funny Quaker dress, and attended by a 
gentleman. 

" There! " ejaculated the old lady, mopping up her tears in- 
dignantly with her handkerchief. " Didn't I tell you she'd come 
back safe enough ? Didn't I tell you she'd been up to some 
mischief or other, and 'ud come home soon enough. But I'm 
nobody. You never mind me. You wish I'd die ; I know you 
do, and I'm sure I wish I could, to oblige ye, that's all." 

Here the violence of the old lady's grief permitted Amos to 
be heard. 

" Where have you been, Prue, and where did you get that 
absurd dress ? " 

She came into the light, then, and spreading out her dress 
with both hands, made him a very low bow, saying by way of 
introduction : 

" Please, Sir, it's the queer little old mouse upstairs that I 
laughed at." 

She looked so droll that Amos laughed too, and when Prue 
introduced Mr. Leithwait, of course he was not very grave, at 
which the old lady, looking at Prue through her tears, cried out : 

" Prudence Clifford ; them's your mother's things — your 
mother's 'ts dead and gone, and little did I ever think I'd live 
to see Lizzie's gal laughin' at her dead mother's dresses. But 
I knowed it would be so ; I told Lizzie on her dyin' bed how it 
'ud be." 



EAELY PKOSE WORKS 221 

Prue soothed the irritable old lady, and having induced Mr. 
Leithwait to sit down, slipped upstairs from which she shortly 
returned in her own neat little brown dress, with its dainty 
linen collar, and the prettiest of blushes upon her face. Evi- 
dently, Mr. Leithwait and Amos, who had been able to sit up 
in his easy-chair, had been exchanging confidences, for the 
eyes of both were shining when she went in, and Amos said 
tenderly : 

" Come here, little sister." 

She went to him half-shyly, and kneeling by his side, put 
her shining little head upon his knee. He lifted it between his 
hands, looking gravely into the sweet eyes, said: 

" Mr. Leithwait has told me your secret, Prue, and his — 
you are a dear girl, darling, and I suppose my ' no ' would 
in this instance, amount to as much as it did when you had 
the grace to ask my consent about the advertisement ; therefore 
I need not say it. What shall I say ? " 

Prue hid her face in her hands, and said shyly : 

" If thee pleases I would rather hear yes." 

Of course, the word being easy of pronunciation, was spoken, 
and Mr. Leithwait took tea with them, at which the grand- 
mother asked him " if he meant to eat them out of house and 
home, and then stay an' see 'em starve anyhow, and she wished 
she was dead." Then Prue saw the old lady to her room, and 
after that the two spent a happy evening. 

Two months later, there was a quiet wedding at St. James. 
The witnesses were an old lady, and three happy rosy children, 
who clung to the hand of a gentleman leaning on a crutch, and 
the bride and groom were none other than Mr. Leithwait and 
his quondam Quaker governess, who said sweetly as she passed 
out from the church, in a reply to a whisper from him: 

" I hope I shall be able to please thee." 

" Prue, Prue, dear little Prue ! " sighed the gentleman on 
the crutch. " Eor myself I weep. I could almost regret you 
went governessing, since it has cost me a sister, and our house 
its sunshine." 

" And I alius said," groaned the old lady, " 'at 'Lizy's chil- 
dren 'ud desert me and leave me to die in the work'us, an' so 
they will. O miserable me ! " 



222 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

But Amos cleared his face, Prue caught her husband's smile ; 
and after all, the demure little governess was not so very de- 
mure, and the old lady was not so miserable, seeing that a 
handsome box of snuff 1 from the bridegroom so made her 
sneeze, that she forgot to groan. 

As for the rosy children, they insisted upon " Mama Prue " 
putting on her Quaker dress again ; " For," said they, " you 
look so good in it." 

For the New York Mercury, June 23, 1866. 



RENTING A HUSBAND 

" Wanted to rent — A convenient house, pleasantly situated ; must con- 
tain at least six rooms, and be within ten minutes' walk of the North 
School. An immediate occupant will be found by addressing S. F. Rivard, 
Macomb Street, No. 25." 

This advertisement was not to me the simple, commonplace 
affair that it seems to you ; not by any means. It was achieved 
after a great deal of thought and by a great deal of labor. 
First, there was the time before I could decide that our present 
quarters were intolerable and must be changed. I think the 
fact of finding a piece of Mrs. Green's fine comb in the soup, 
finally decided me that this was not the ne plus ultra of 
boarding-places. Be that as it might, I did decide, and then 
wasted a semi-quire of Gummes' best " cream-laid " before my 
advertisement arrived at its fullest and briefest perfection. I 
erased and interpolated ; condensed to the last degree of brevity, 
not that it might be " the soul of wit," but that my slender 
purse might be spared an extra twinge. I paused occasionally 
to wonder how it would look in print, and whether I should not 
feel honored at the publicity. I am no litterateuse, and until 
that eventful time had never written my name in a more am- 
bitious place than in a four-page letter to Harry, when I was 
always very careful to dot my Fs and cross my t's lest he 
should think me rustic. Ah me, ah me! This commonplace 
advertisement was the bridge which spanned the past; and 
leaning my tired head upon my desk, my adventurous feet 
crossed over, touching again with familiar sound the shores of 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 223 

" auld lang syne," the time when life was flower-crowned and 
sorrow seemed forever dead. How neatly I used to sign my 
name to those letters to Harry, " Saloma." What else was 
there ? Ah, yes, I remember now. It was always " Your true 
Saloma." I never changed the endings of those letters, for I 
had a fancy that their sameness should be to him a little type 
of that unchanging love which I had given him. He was the 
son of a neighboring-farmer; and, being a fine, manly fellow, 
I used to feel very proud to have him come in, as he did before 
he went to college, night after night, and sit in front of the 
great old glowing fireplace, listening to father's dry old jokes — 
which the dear old gentleman repeats still every night with 
the greatest faith in their perpetual freshness and brilliancy — 
and yet always having his face in sunshine for me and a sly 
hand for stray curls. Those were happy times when, boy and 
girl, we stood " where the brook and river meet." That night I 
looked at the picture of myself and of the other through blinding 
tears. 

Well, Harry was ambitious; and Mr. Lee, being a well-to-do 
man, and having but one son, sent him to college. After that, I 
saw him only at holidays, but the slender fetter on my hand 
bound us heart to heart, and tender letters kept the watchfires 
burning. I cannot tell the day when Harry's visits began to 
grow less longed for and less pleasant than they used to be; 
but that time came, as was most natural, since Harry was con- 
stantly improving in education and refinement; while I, a sim- 
ple country girl, was standing still. Sometimes he would say, 
with a sigh, " Ah, Saloma ! The dear old days are gone for- 
ever ! " and fell to watching the blazing fire with a sober and 
thoughtful face. I noticed, too, that he listened to father's jokes 
a little less patiently, and that his face was not always in sun- 
shine for me. He grew petulant and fault-finding, telling me 
that Miss Stevens did so and so, until my quick temper would 
blaze from my eyes and silence him. 

This state of things could not last very long. I was a con- 
tinual shock to his new-found refinement, and he was to my 
proud sensitiveness. I think we acted upon each other as two 
electric machines of equal power and equally charged. But the 
finale came. One evening, as usual, Harry was sitting by the 



224 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

fire, and I was opposite him, embroidering his initials on some 
handkerchiefs, when suddenly he said : 

" I wish, Saloma, that you'd manage some way to do up 
your hair ; I don't like to see it all in a tangle about your shoul- 
ders like that ! " 

" My curls " all in a tangle like that ! " 

My curls which I had prized because his hands had smoothed 
them and his eyes loved them — which I had curled that very 
afternoon when I was tired, solely to please him ! Tears sprang 
to my eyes. 

" Oh, Harry! " I faltered, " you used to like them so much; 
but — " indignation getting the better of my sorrow — " I reckon 
Miss Stevens don't wear curls ! " 

Harry's face had softened under the first part of the sen- 
tence; but before I had finished it he looked grimly at me, 
and then, replied petulantly : " There it is again ! You 
reckon ! Saloma, don't, I beg of you, ever use that expression 
again. It's so low." 

" You used to use it ! " I retorted; " and your mother ' reck- 
ons ' every sentence she utters ! " 

Harry's face flushed. 

" We cannot expect old folks to improve much ! " he replied ; 
" but I will not have my future wife i reckoning ' and ' guess- 
ing ' like a down-east plow-boy ! " 

" What's that about the plow-boy ? " asked father, looking 
up from his paper. " I'll tell you a good one about a boy who 
drove a plow in Washton. He — " 

" Father, I think I hear the colt out in the barn. Will you 
see ? " 

Of course, the dear old gentleman went; and with a regret 
that I must send him on a vain errand, I closed the door, and 
standing by it, said: 

" Now, Harrv, I am willing to hear all that you have to 
say!" 

" There is nothing more, Saloma, only I want you to be care- 
ful of your hands ; they're quite callous inside, Saloma, indeed 
they are — and dress, too. You must dress more as becomes my 
future wife ! " 

" Your future wife may dress as she pleases ! " I replied 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 225 

calmly and steadily, " and I shall dress as I please ! That my 
hands are callous are my glory, not my shame ; since a dear old 
father, unfit for work, is made more comfortable by them. 
That they are unfit to be joined to yours, I thank you for show- 
ing me ! " 

1 slipped the ring from my finger, and as it touched his hand, 
he sprang back as though it had burnt him. It fell to the 
floor, and he ground his heel upon it. 

'' You are in earnest in this ? " he asked, under his breath. 

" Yes, in bitter earnest, Harry Lee! " I replied. " If you 
are not satisfied with me now when you see me once in three 
months, I reckon you wouldn't if you saw me every day ! " 

Harry's lip curled, as I knew it would when I used the word. 

"You'll repent it!" said he. " You'll repent it yet, Sa- 
loma ! And, by Heaven ! when you want me next you'll engage 
me yourself ! I'm no man to go mad about a woman, I can tell 
you ! You'll marry me yet — you know you will ! " 

" Yes," I replied, under my breath from anger. " When I 
engage you of my own free will, I'll marry you ; then, and not 
till then!" 

" As you please," he replied. " Until you do, rest assured 
we are strangers." 

With those cruel words on his lips, he went out, and I heard 
his young hasty, quick steps crunching the dead leaves in the 
path ; and then, listening with my whole heart, I heard father's 
voice : 

" What, Harry, going so soon ? and you haven't heard my 
joke about the plow boy yet." 

I did not catch his reply, though I tried very hard; for 
even at that moment the sound of his voice was dearer than 
any other music in the world; but he was gone. I heard the 
gate close, and it clanged on my shivering heart. I gathered 
up the bits of ring and put them out of sight. I sent his letters 
to him that same night, but he never sent mine; and so the 
springtime of my life fell suddenly into scorching summer. 

After Harry left, I roused myself to a full understanding of 
my position. I comprehended that he was advancing constantly 
in refinement and culture, while I was retrograding; and I 
saw that he must have left me just as surely and naturally 
as the swift-winged lark out-soars the slower robin. 



226 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

Seeing this, my heart lost its anger and yearned for the old 
love. I determined to fit myself for his companionship. I 
could not leave father or I should have immured myself in a 
convent until I could burst the chrysalis and appear as a beau- 
tiful butterfly. This being impossible, I engaged teachers, 
paying them by many hard labors and close economies, and 
began my education in earnest. 

Four years passed, and then I sold the farm, and father and I 
went to live in town. Unlike most old people, he longed for 
change, and was happy as a child when we were comfortably 
settled in a boarding-house, and I had a situation in one of the 
public schools at a living salary. 

During all these years, I heard but once of Harry. That 
was when we broke up housekeeping. Harry's mother came over 
and told me that he was married, and had bought a place in Italy. 

" His bride is an Italian, Saloma," she added, reproach- 
fully. " I always hoped my boy would mate nearer home ; but 
I ain't to blame, Saloma, and let them as is take it to heart." 

Married then, and to an Italian. I wore the crown of thorns 
upon throbbing brows. I knew that he would never seek me 
again, but oh ! the thought of his having forgotten me was ter- 
trible. Hope in my heart folded her wings and died, and I 
came out of the affliction a sobered, saddened woman. I put 
forever away the curls his hand had touched, and smiled to 
think that he would never find fault with them again. Six 
years passed, leaden-footed, beating their slow, regular tramp 
over the path of my heart, like a gang of reluctant criminals 
urged on by stronger powers, and brought me to the night 
when I sat with my head upon my desk and dreaming, and my 
advertisement for improved quarters achieved. Two days 
passed, and then I received three notes in reply to the notice. 
I was glad of this, for father could always tell his jokes best in 
a dry room (this was very damp), and was not partial to Mrs. 
Green's soups. 

The notes all described houses pleasantly situated and con- 
venient beyond description; so the following morning being 
Saturday, I determined to see for myself those unparalleled 
houses. 

Among the notes there was one written on a little white paper 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 227 

in a tiny, cramped hand, but perfectly neat, which somehow 
pleased me more than either of the others. To my great de- 
light, Saturday morning dawned clear and bright for I dread 
house-hunting only second to advertising, and needed all the 
sunshine of heaven to make it bearable. 

I put on my bonnet, smiling cheerfully at the silver thread 
I saw in my brown hair ; kissed father, and started on my tour 
of inspection. 

" Hurry back, Saloma," called father after me. " I've a cap- 
ital one to tell you." 

A brief walk brought me to the first house on my list. Tak- 
ing a survey of the external appearance, I summed up at once : 
" Eence down, windows broken, steps falling, spouts hanging 
loose, shutters dilapidated, and front door off hinge." Not 
thinking it worth while to penetrate further into the " comfort- 
able convenient house," I shook my head at the note and turned 
my steps to the second one. It was certainly an improve- 
ment, outwardly ; I rang the bell, and a frowsy-headed maid-of- 
all-work answered it ; replying with an ungracious assent to my 
desire to see the house. I will not declare the disqualifications 
which I discovered there for comfortable living, suffice it to 
say that nothing but a fish could live comfortably there, since 
the cellar was full of water from broken sewers, and the house, 
from faulty roofs, was equally damp. I was bowed out by 
the scowling upper-servant, who maliciously banged the door 
upon my parasol handle, and then protested that she didn't see 
it; and weary of heart and foot, went to the last house on my 
list. When I saw it my heart leaped gladly, but sank again the 
lower for having leaped, when I thought what must be the rent. 
It was a gothic house, clean as a pin, and fresh as the morning. 
There was a bay-window looking toward the west, and in it an 
easy arm-chair. The very seat for father, I thought. He al- 
ways watched the sun set. The lawn was like velvet, and rare 
tube-roses laid their blushing cheeks lovingly against the lat- 
tice. There was a grapery at the rear, and already the wine-red 
lips of the tender clusters were lifted to the sunshine. 

Drawing a sigh that all this luxury must be beyond my reach, 
I ascended the steps and pulled the bell. 

It was answered at once by a little cramped old lady, who I 



228 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

knew at once had written the cramped, quaint little note. She 
was so perfectly neat in her black alpaca and white cap, and 
had so quiet a smile upon her face, that I involuntarily returned 
her smile of welcome without marveling why she should welcome 
me. 

" I'll show you the house," she said. " Come in, Miss Ri- 
vard." 

She led the way through the house to the parlors; such ele- 
gant, cozy parlors they were; so suited to my quiet taste, that 
I felt as though a loving hand had fitted them for me alone. 
On the low marble mantels two or three exquisite alabaster 
statues stood on their creamy pedestals, and between them, 
vases of rare flowers; pure lily cups circled by flaming ver- 
benas, and, most lovely of all, a single white camelia blushing 
in the scarlet setting of geraniums. In this room, as in every 
room in the house, I noticed a little bouquet of Venus's flytrap 
set in a circle of arbor-vitae. Pausing once to wonder at the 
taste which should select so odd a flower, I asked the little, old 
lady if she arranged them. " Thy friend till death. Have I 
caught you at last ? " I repeated, dreamily. 

" Law, Miss," said the little old lady, " I don't know the 
language. It's happened so." 

I understood afterward how it was, but not then. 

We went through the house. Everywhere I saw that same 
congeniality of taste between the person who had furnished the 
house and myself. I liked rare quiet pictures, full of the in- 
spiration of Heaven, and here were just such. I liked easy- 
chairs and graceful drapery, and all were as it should be. " Did 
you furnish this house ? " I asked of the little old lady. 

She started. "I — yes — no — , that is, my son John did." 

" What is this room ? " I asked, opening a closed door. 

The old lady hastily stepped in before me, and gathering up 
a pair of boots and an odd slipper, smuggled them in a closet. 
When she looked at me she was blushing. 

" It's John's room, ma'am," she apologised ; " and he's for- 
got to put his things away. Boys will be boys, ma'am, even 
after they're grown men." 

Supposing that she was embarrassed, because I had seen the 
room disordered, I changed the subject. 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 229 

" What do you ask for the house ? " 

" Three hundred a year.' 7 

" Furnished as it is ? " 

" Just as it is, ma'am. Not a thing disturbed. Is that too 
much ? " deprecatingly. 

" You mean house and furniture for three hundred ? " 

" Johnny said for the house and its appurtenances, which I 
suppose is the furniture, ma'am; but if that's too much — " 
hesitating, " it'll go to somebody else. Just as you please, 
ma'am." 

" I'll take the house." 

" Just as it is ? " 

" Just as it is." 

The little old lady laughed, then spatted her little bird's-claws 
of hands together, and laughed again. 

I began to think I had said a very silly thing, or a very 
good one; but she seemed to enjoy the joke all the more at my 
astonishment. 

" Why do you laugh ? " said I. " Is the house haunted ? " 

" Never saw a ghost, here." 

" Am I cheated in taking the house ? " 

" It's dear rented for six hundred, ma'am." 

" Why do you offer it for three hundred, then ? " 

The little old lady colored and stammered. 

" Why you see, ma'am, we — that is I and John — had a 
fancy that the house best be let where there are no children. 
We don't care much for the rent. That's all, Miss Rivard. I 
think you'll take good care of the house. So if you wouldn't 
mind putting down on paper, that you have engaged the house 
for next year, I'll be obliged." 

The old lady led me into the library with a great deal of 
anxious fluttering, which reminded me of a mother-bird, and 
gave me paper and pen. 

" What shall I write here ? " I asked. 

" Only say that you engage the house and everything in it just 
as it stands, for one year, at three hundred dollars, and sign 
your name." 

The little old lady surreptitiously clapped her hands behind 
her back when she thought I wasn't looking, and turned away 



230 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

her face to laugh. Thoroughly convinced that she was de- 
mented, I said : 

" Except yourself, you mean ? " 

" Oh yes: except myself, of course." 

" When can I have possession ? " 

" To-morrow, if you like." 

" I've said I'll take the house. What's the use of writing 
this?" 

The little old lady suddenly brought her hands together be- 
fore her, and said severely: 

" Just as you please, ma'am. Of course, if you don't want 
the house, you needn't take it; but I never let it to any one 
without a written engagement." 

I didn't like this turn of affairs, so I said, soothingly: 

" I'll write it. Here begins. — ' I, Saloma Eivard, spinster, 
do solemnly swear — (no, that's wrong) — do solemnly engage 
this house and all its appurtenances, great and small.' " 

" And all it contains," interrupted the little old lady. 

" ' And all it contains, for the space of one year, at the rent 
of three hundred dollars. Signed this seventh day of August, 
18—. 

" ' Saloma Tracy Rivard, spinster.' 

"There; how's that?" 

" There ain't any way you could creep out of it, is there ? " 

" IsTo." 

" That'll do, then. But, ma'am, hadn't I best keep house 
for you ? I'm used to the ways of the house, and hate to leave 
it." 

" No," I said, " I must get a maid for about six dollars ; I 
can't afford a housekeeper." 

" I'll stay for that money. You see," hesitatingly, " my 
son'll be from home, and I'd be best here, and I can't be idle 
very well." 

"Stay for that? You?" 

" Yes, may I ? " 

" I'll try you," I said. 

The old lady put the engagement, as she called it, in her 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 231 

bosom, laughing behind her hand, which she changed into a 
cough when she caught my eye. She saw me to the door, and 
said " good-morning." When I reached the street corner I 
turned, and I am positive that I saw her laughing and clapping 
her hands behind the parlor-windows. I walked home, some- 
what uneasy about my facetious housekeeper, and vainly trying 
to find the source of her amusement. What could be there about 
my renting a house already furnished which was so laughable, 
I could not determine. Eeaching my boarding-house at length, 
tired and hungry, I dismissed the little old lady and her mirth 
from my thoughts. 

Father kept me busy for the remainder of the day describing 
the house and furniture, liking best of all that easy-chair drawn 
up in the bay-window. " I've seen the sun set every night for 
seventy years, Saloma," he said ; " and please God, I'll see it 
every night until I die." 

On Monday morning I was up at dawn, in my impatience to 
get to our new house, and leave father comfortably settled before 
I left for school, at nine o'clock. As for him, he was so eager 
to assist me, that he disarranged as fast as I could arrange ; but 
at last the trunks were strapped and put on the dray. Mrs. 
Green was paid; and father and I, to save time, indulged in a 
ride to our new house. Our housekeeper met us at the door, 
smiling a welcome, and neat as a pin. She ushered us into 
the parlor, already warmed, for it was a chill morning; and I 
noticed, when I entered the apartment, that a meerschaum was 
lying on the mantelpiece, but this the little old lady smuggled 
into her pocket before I could glance a second time, muttering 
to herself that she had not cleaned up, since we were earlier than 
she expected. 

" Where is your son, John ? " I asked surprisedly, for I ob- 
served that the little marble centre-table was in a perfect flush, 
because of the rosy fly-traps hedged in with cedar. Every 
bell seemed to sing out to my astonished senses : " Ha ! ha ! 
have I caught you at last ; have I caught you ? " 

The old lady was absolutely shaking with laughter, but when 
I turned, she remarked, in a matter-of-fact tone, that she was 
shaking from cold, and that John was at his work. 

" Does he sleep here ? " 



232 THE OLD SOEAP BOOK 

" Oh no, ma'am; only since the owners have gone ! " 

" I thought you said he owned the house ? " 

" He ; oh no, ma'am. It's a gentleman from New York, I 
think." 

Not caring to argue the little old lady into a story somewhat 
more connected, I sat down to enjoy the luxurious abode which 
fortune had tossed over my head, and to wonder about that 
very remarkable son, John, who was so uncommon a character. 
As for father, he had taken immediate possession of the easy- 
chair in the bay; and when I went to school I left him there 
still telling the little old lady " the best one that he ever got 
off once at a club-meeting." 

After school, I had my dinner. The little old lady proved 
a very queen of cooks; and then amused myself by going over 
every nook and corner of my new home, excepting one, that was 
the room that I had seen the boots on the floor. That door 
was locked; I applied to the housekeeper for the key, but 
she was under the impression that John must have taken it off 
in his pocket, and I must wait until he returned it. This, slight 
as it was, bothered me. I was tortured by the air of mystery 
about the woman and the place. She was the best of house- 
keepers, and apparently the gentlest of women; but I couldn't 
make her stories agree, and I. didn't like her hesitating about 
answering simple questions; and above all I hated her surrep- 
titiously clapping her hands behind my back, and chuckling 
over some inward joke. I noticed this particularly one night, 
when I had been domiciled for a week. We were sitting at 
the table, and she was pouring out the tea, when a sudden, 
stealthy man's step sounded on the walk outside. It was as 
though a man was walking on tiptoe. The little old lady 
started suddenly, muttered something about the tea being too 
strong, and went to the kitchen. Listening, I heard the sup- 
posed sound of voices ; one was a man's ; and then all was still. 
The little old lady came in with the tea, and quietly resumed 
her seat and duties. 

" Who was that? " I asked. 

" My son, John," was the reply, given with an inexpressible 
laugh. 

" Did he bring the key ? " I asked. 



EAKLY PKOSE WOKKS 233 

" I don't know — I think so." 

" Well, get it for me." 

" Yes, ma'am." 

At that the little old lady put down her cup and went off in 
a burst of laughter, clapping her hands and stamping her little 
feet most vehemently. I laid down fork and bread and looked 
at her. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she was almost 
out of breath. 

" Oh, I must have it out," she ejaculated between bursts. 
" Never mind, ma'am ; but — Oh, my — it is too good — and 
the last," and was completely swamped in the next fit. 

" What's the matter with her ? " asked father. " Has she 
thought of a good 'un' ? Let's have it, madam. Laugh and 
grow fat's my maxim, I tell a joke occasionally." 

I tried to annihilate the little old lady by the sternness of my 
eyes. 

" What ails you ? " I asked severely. " Are you subject to 
spasms ? " 

With that she laughed again, and then wiping the tears from 
her eyes, said humbly, " I beg your pardon, Madam, but I was 
so glad to see my son ; it's most turned my head I think." 

" Quite, I think," I returned, determined upon being severe. 

Father, you must have some oysters in my room to-night," 

said the little old lady. " John has invited two or three friends, 

and brought some oysters, and I want you to tell them some of 

your good jokes." 

Oysters and jokes ! Could any lively old gentleman stand 
the temptation, when he could be in his own house? Father 
couldn't. 

" Ay, ay ! I'll be happy to come," said father, " if Saloma 
won't be lonely." 

" Oh, she'll not be lonely ; and I'll come for you at eight 
o'clock, as you don't know the way of the house yet." 

Father was pleased at the invitation; so I put on him a 
clean collar, and brushed up his coat, and at the appointed hour 
passed him over to the care of the little old lady to pilot down- 
stairs. I observed that she was literally shaking with laughter 
when she took him off, but I was sure she would be careful of 
him. 



234 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Once alone, I drew my curtains and stirred up my fire until 
the firelight spirits came in a troupe and danced upon my 
carpets and wall, weaving their fantastic, mazy circles in a 
thousand graceful figures. But for me there was less spiritual 
work than watching these weird dancers. I resolutely turned 
my back to them, and settled down to correcting a set of compo- 
sitions. I was totally engrossed in a long effusion, regarding 
a certain walk in the garden which the young genius had taken, 
when he had seen the little lambs skipping and the flowers bloom- 
ing very nice, when suddenly I was conscious of some one 
being in the room. I had heard no sound, but my inner con- 
sciousness could have taken oath that another soul within that 
room had lately supplied its presence; and now my startled 
ears took in a faint, faint sound, but to me more terrible than 
the clangor of a thousand bells. It was some one breathing. 

My pencil slid from my hand ; the coward blood from my face. 
I dared not lift my eyes or move, so sure was I that some other 
one was in the room. 

"Saloma! Saloma!" 

Ay, surely I knew the ring of that dear voice. Deepened in 
tone, it might be ; but down from the far-off past it came to me, 
and answered in its ring to this. I sprang up with a cry, and 
stood face to face with the speaker. A tall, bearded man, with 
a broad, white brow. Ah, surely I knew that brow ; those eyes 
— surely, surely, the picture in my heart was the true photo- 
graph of his face, sun-browned by age. Back along the path 
of memory my swift feet, fairy-sandaled flew, and I knew that 
this was Harry — Harry Lee — my Harry who had listened to 
father's jokes in the old farm kitchen, and had his face in sun- 
shine for me. He offered his two hands now, and I put mine in 
them. Then he eagerly scanned my face, and bending, kissed 
me. 

" For the sake of the old pledge, Saloma," he said. 

" Where did you come from ? " I gasped. " How did you 
get here ? " 

" I came from Reed's Hotel," he replied, smiling. " Your 
door was slightly ajar, and I came in." 

I offered him a chair and he sat down, keeping his eyes on my 
face. As I turned toward him I saw that the centre-table was 



EAKLY PKOSE WOEKS 235 

heaped with flowers, just as it had been the first day when I 

entered the parlor. 

" Did you bring the flowers ? " 

" Folks first, flowers afterward," he replied. 

" You are not changed, Saloma, not much changed, only your 

face is sadder." 

" I slept and dreamed that life was beauty, 
I woke, and found that life was duty." 

I said gravely. 

" And you ? " his brow darkened. " I, oh, I've found that 
the world's a rose with a worm in the heart. I have traveled 
for seven years, and now, like Noah's dove, I have come back to 
the ark of safety." 

" Where is your wife ? " I asked, softly, dreading even to hear 
her name from his lips. I know not why. 

The smile died from his face. 

" She was a Southern child," he said, simply, " and is dead. 
I buried her in Italy ; she and little Saloma." 

Tears sprang to my eyes. He had had then a little Saloma. 

" Now," he said, gently, " I want to talk with you. Are 
you still a little Puritan ? " 

" Just the same." 

" And you always keep your promise ? " 

" When I can." 

" Do you remember how we parted ? " 

Did I remember it ? Did the Egyptians remember that last 
day of sunshine before the terrible plague of darkness blotted 
it from their straining eyes? 

" Yes, I remember." 

" Saloma, I have been true to the foolish vow made then, until 
you of your own free will renewed our engagement. I never 
came." 

There was a tremble in his eyes which I thought ill-timed. 
The indignant blood dyed my face. 

" I renew our engagement ? " I cried. " I seek you, Harry 
Lee ! Erom the night you went out from the old home kitchen 
I do solemnly tell you that I have never by word or line sought 
you, or renewed any engagement that was broken then." 



236 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" If you had not, I should not have been here/' said Harry. 

" Then you had better go at once, for I never have." 

" Saloma ! Saloma ! I have your note in my pocket here. 
How can you deny it ? " 

" My note ! " 

He drew from his pocket-book, with the most provoking non- 
chalance, a small note, and passed it to me. I opened it, and 
found but the note I had written for the little old lady, relative 
to taking the house. 

" The joke is harder to comprehend than the poorest of Lord 
Dundreary's," I remarked, as he laughed ; " I shall have to 
ask you to explain." 

" Why, Saloma, don't you see ? Can't you understand ? Oh, 
you dumb little thing. Don't the Venus flytraps and the arbor- 
vitae tell the story? I was afraid they'd let me out. Didn't 
you engage the house and all that was in it ? " 

" Yes, certainly." 

" Well, you dear little goose, I happened to be in it, and my 
boots came near betraying me, too. You engaged me with the 
other furniture. Don't you see, Saloma ? " 

Of course, I saw, and joined in the laugh against myself, 
heartily. 

" And you will not break your promise ? " 

To this I made no answer. 

" How did it all happen — tell me all, please." 

So he told the story. 

" When I left you, Saloma, I was angry and proud, and cer- 
tain that I hated you ; but I didn't, Saloma. Well, before my 
course was finished, I met a young Italian girl. I married her, 
I can scarcely tell why. I knew that you were lost to me. We 
went to Italy, and there our little girl was born, and died. We 
had not been happy, my wife and I; but when the little one 
died, it softened our hearts, and I watched her fading away 
with an aching heart. When we had been married three years, 
she died. I laid her by the child, and left Italy. For the next 
four years I wandered about, speculating with an indifferent 
rashness that made my future, and caring little for life or death. 
Last December, at Havana, I fell ill. I was very ill indeed, 
and my thoughts, like carrier-doves, flew home. I heard your 



EAELY PEOSE WOKKS 237 

voice, and saw you, and I think it was that which drew me 
back from death. Darling, the fever left me and I came back 
home. I went to the old place, and saw my father and mother. 
Then I traced you here; but, remembering my oath, was too 
proud to seek you. I bought this house, and furnished it as I 
thought you would like it, and every day I saw you at a dis- 
tance. At last fortune favored me. Your advertisement gave 
me a cue. I took my housekeeper into confidence. She nursed 
me at Havana, and loves me dearly; and I instructed her to 
offer the house at such a rate as you would be likely to accept 
— the house, just as it was. 

" And now, petite, since you have rented me for one year, 
of your own free will, if you will change that lease for a lifelong 
one, put your hand in mine and tell me so." 

It was all necromancy. I was certainly mesmerized, for I 
obeyed him to the letter, feeling glad to lose the independence 
of the woman in the simple trust of the child. The little old 
lady came in with father, then, and had her laugh out. I fully 
expected to see her vanish into thin air in one of those gusts of 
merriment. And then she told the story to father, and he 
has repeated it every night since, as the best and freshest joke he 
knows. 

As for Harry and me, we are happy as the day is long, and I 
have never regretted renting the house just as it was, although 
Harry protests that I ought to pay my rent more regularly than 
I do. 

Father, sitting in the easy-chair, watching the sun set, begs 
to know of the boy on his knees, if he happens to know that 
his father was formerly rented out at three hundred a year, 
wants to know if he don't see the joke — which, of course, my 
cherub don't see, but laughs and crows nevertheless, until 
grandpa smothers him with kisses ; and Harry, looking over his 
paper, says: 

" I rather think, Saloma, that father has a joke this time 
which will never grow old. Wasn't it capital ? " 

For the New York Mercury. September 15, 1866. 



238 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

ERNEST BELL'S " REASONS " 
Given by Himself, and Therefore Authentic 

I, John Ernest Bell, bachelor, and a very earnest bachelor I 
am, have been plagued, and teased, and tormented, until in self- 
defense I take up this weapon mightier than the sword. 

You must know that my name is " Ernest Bell," among my 
mother's friends — " Ernie Bell " sometimes, but among the 
boys it is simply " Bell," " John Bell," or sometimes even " Jack 
Bell." I am thus explicit because " thereby hangs a tale." I 
am not frightfully homely, nor, I am convinced, am I a beauty, 
being too short and fleshy for an Apollo. Then as to hyacinth- 
ine locks, I haven't very many of any sort, but those I have are 
sandy, and fringe a little bald spot on my head. I don't know 
when it first came there. I have been told I was bald when a 
baby in arms ; but this I cannot vouch for, since I always wore 
caps. I am good-natured, and hold to the maxim that the world 
owes me a living; consequently, I never wear ugly wrinkles 
under my eyes, nor tighten the curves about my mouth by try- 
ing to squeeze a living from it. And as an equal sequence, I 
am not by any means poor. Dame Fortune, like all feminines, 
is more likely to favor those who treat her indifferently; and 
as she is the only woman I ever could be indifferent to, so it 
seems she is the only one who has not in some measure been 
false to me. 

Well, I have had an easy life. My brow has never bent to 
any heavier care than an ill-fitting hat ; and they tell me my 
eyes are just as clear and blue as a baby's. That I consider 
rather a compliment, since I love babies, even the hook-nosed, 
keen-eyed caricature of a baby which belongs to the people op- 
posite. And now I come to the grand question which has been 
agitating my mind for years. 

" Bell," says old Skeefles, who has been unfortunate in specu- 
lation, and married a rich wife ; " why don't you marry ? Take 
my advice — marry a rich girl. There's Cerintha Ann — " 

" Jack," bursts out my honest, frank chum, " don't be a fool. 
Let women alone." (Chum's wife ran off with a better looking 
man last year.) 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 239 

" Ernest," says Aunt Catherine, sighing — " marry some fair 
angel, and learn to enjoy life, dear boy." 

" O dear, Mr. Bell," simpers Angelina, leaning lovingly on 
my arm (Angelina's old enough to talk plainly, I should think. 
I could speak as plain as father at two years old, and I'm sure 
she's older than that twice told) ; " why can't you marry? I 
know that many deah geirls " (she says " geirls ") " would de- 
vote their whole existence to your comfort." 

" Bell," says Peter Clat, who has tried it ; " marry, if you 
must, but, for the good Laud's sake, don't marry a rich woman. 
I've been there." 

Now what's a man to do ? I want to oblige them all — I like 
to oblige, but how can I marry a rich woman and a poor one, 
and not marry at all ? I don't see my way clear. And so I 
concluded I would just tell my story, and let them all judge of 
my reasons for being so disobliging in this one matter. 

It was Christmas evening, I think. Why, I know it was 
Christmas-eve, for I stopped to pat some children on the head, 
who were looking at Christmas toys in the shop-window, when 
I went home out of humor. I don't know whether it was the 
bright eyes of those blessed children or the natural gloominess of 
the day which made me so, but I was " out of sorts." I banged 
the door of my room, and heard the caustic old-maid of No. 13 
remark above her breath to caustic old-maid No. 15 : 

" Dear me, Lavina, I should think Mrs. Slack ought to 
charge old Bell " (old Bell, indeed) " a dollar extra for the 
use of that door. I believe another month'll wear it out." 

Now I was not in the habit of slamming my door, and never 
had been, so I felt that the remark was undeserved; but I re- 
solved to forget it — for, said I, what has Ernest Bell to do 
with care on Christmas-eve ? Christmas-eve ! Ah, surely. 
At thought of it my heart stirred softly like a bird on its nest, 
and I sat down languidly and lonesomely in my easy-chair. It 
was a cheerless room, I thought, and yet there was nothing 
cheerless about it. The carpet was rich, and soft, and bright- 
tinted, and the shadowy crimson curtains fell in full folds 
from the gilded cornicing. My chair was easy, and from the 
grate the glowing anthracite sent up its cheerful flames, but 
there was no trace of a loving hand in its arrangement. The 



240 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

beautiful vases were unfilled, my slippers peeped from their 
case, my dressing-gown from the closet; there was no trace of 
dear careless fingers, no sign of loving companionable disorder. 
I would have given all I was worth to have felt the touch of a 
loving hand and the thousand nameless signs of a dear one's pres- 
ence. 

Looking into the coals that silent Christmas Eve, my thoughts 
flew backward until I heard my mother call me as of old, " My 
darling boy ! Ernie, my darling boy ! " They were her last 
words, borne to me faintly, as if she were half-way across the 
deep, dark river and her loving soul had turned again to waft 
me that loving name. I was a child then. Oh, would to 
Heaven I were a child still. How it all came back to me that 
night — my childhood; the gay old times when we trimmed 
the rooms in holly and spruce, and believed in Santa Claus. 
How we used to lie in bed and wait with bated breath, for the 
jingling of his sleigh-bells, and the chirping of his merry voice, 
which, somehow, we never stayed awake long enough to hear. 
Oh, dear me ! Why can't we always believe in Santa Glaus ? 
It's terrible to know for a certainty that father and mother put 
those presents in your stockings, and that there never was such 
a jolly, genial, little saint as he. Don't tell the children at all 
events. Let the darlings have faith in him as long as their ten- 
der feet chase childish pleasures. 

How time passed then ! My long curls were sacrificed to my 
boyish pride, and I recollect mother cried when she cut them 
off. Then my pinafore gave place to pants. What a man I was 
then! How I condescended to Baby that day. I have never 
felt the same pride and glory of manhood so earnestly as I did 
then when I rammed my little fists in my first pockets, and 
strutted about for the admiration of my brothers and sisters. 
How delightedly I lifted up the latch that little Clara could 
not reach ! Alas for me ! she has grown so fast — the little 
Clara — that I cannot reach the latch of the door which has 
shut her from me; and though the locks are daisies and the 
chains myrtle, my weak hand is powerless to break them. 
What a gloomy Christmas it was after she left us ! The glory 
of my boyish dress was old and a matter-of-course : my beau- 
tiful faith in Santa Claus had burst like a brilliant bubble, 



EAELY PEOSE WORKS 241 

and for me the glamour and fascination of Christmas Eve was 
gone forever. The little chair next mine was vacant, and the 
little cup on the dresser was unused, and saddest of all, one 
tiny pair of stockings was missing from the broad old chimney- 
front. Little Clara would never know that Santa Claus was 
but a myth, and that her father filled her stockings. 

And so the years went by. The baby grew in his turn to 
disdain curls, and to glory in pants. Harry, and Charlie, and 
Kate went to school, and Maria, who had been a rigid disciplin- 
arian from her cradle, renounced the world which she had never 
cared for, and became in name, what she was in nature, a stern, 
silent nun. 

Then my mother, who had fought the good fight, armed with 
the shield of faith and the helmet of salvation, went over the 
river. " She could go no farther, so the angels took her home." 
Before another Christmas our father followed her. So the 
dear home next was broken up, and the young birds, one by one, 
abandoned it. Harry married and went to Europe, Kate went 
to the far west with a husband of her own choosing ; and Charlie, 
our fair, bright, talented Charlie, genial and witty, and gay — 
forgot too often his angel mother and yielded to temptation. 
I sent him to Europe with Harry, and the baby Clarence I sent 
to college. So there was not a child at the old home. Many 
Christmases had passed since then, and yet alone in my room 
they came back to me. We had a little visitor in our home then 
— Gertrude Lee — and we were all together. I had lost my 
faith in Santa Claus and was already fighting under Cupid's 
arrows. How happy I was to see Gertrude's delighted gratitude 
to Santa Claus for the little ship which she had found in her 
stocking, but which had been my labor for many days. How 
I loved the little coquette, who was sure to shower her favors 
on Charlie ! How — 

" Ernie, my darling boy, have patience ! " 

The clear, sweet tones came through the partition, breaking 
in like a sound of remembered music upon my dreams. I 
started suddenly. There was a familiar cadence in the voice 
which murmured such familiar words that involuntarily I lis- 
tened. 

" But, mamma," sighed a childish voice, with a sad intona- 



242 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

tion which pained me, " it is so long to wait. Will Santa Clans 
never come and bring me an orange. My lips are so hot." 

" Darling, it is late to-night, and mamma cannot get you 
an orange. Can't you go to sleep ? " 

" O ! " and this time the voice was aquiver with tears, 
" Mamma, I am so hot ; I want one." 

Soft and low came the answer: 

" Ernie, say your prayers, and let mamma cover you up. 
Then she will go and buy you one." 

These neighbors of mine had just come, and I was seized with 
a sudden desire to see them. 

Standing aside that it is ungentlemanly to peep, I must 
confess that I did peep through the keyhole. The lady was 
dressed in mourning, and I could see in that dark waving hair 
and graceful form that she had grace at least. Her face was 
from me, the child was kneeling at her knee. A poor, pale face 
he had, shaded by curls ; and I saw upon it a look which I had 
seen on no face since I had bid Gertie good-by, years before. 
This baby face was so like hers. The very voice had the same 
intonation. 

" God bless mamma and — and — Santa Clau3," prayed the 
child. 

I stole back softly to my room. The cold, sleety rain rattled 
against my windows, but I never thought of that. I donned 
my greatcoat and boots and went out bravely, sending an orange 
up to the child at once by a servant. An hour after that, I re- 
turned, laden down with toys of all kinds — everything that 
I thought he might like. Then I drew my muffler over my 
face and tapped at my neighbor's door. The child was asleep 
in his little bed, and the room was quite dark. As the lady 
stood in the doorway, I tendered the packages, saying: 

" Santa Claus has brought Ernie his toys." 

" But, sir," — the lady hesitated. 

" Madam, do not have less faith than the child. Santa Claus 
has come." 

With that, and before she could refuse, I put the packages 
in her hand and left the hall, passing out the front door to 
elude suspicion, and only venturing back when I was sure the 
lady was asleep. 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 243 

Christmas morning, I was wakened from sleep by the simul- 
taneous burst of sunshine and the laugh of a child — such a 
dear, ringing, childish laugh — such a perfect triumph of 
gladness, that I lifted my head from my pillow to catch its every 
note. 

" Mamma, mamma," shouted the child, " God has sent Santa 
Claus. Oh, may I pray, mamma ? " 

There was a silence, and I knew the child was kneeling. 
Then I heard his voice again, sweetly lifted up: 

" O God, bless mamma and Ernie, and God bless Santa 
Claus." 

How my lonesome old heart warmed at that childish blessing, 
and answered: 

" God in Heaven, bless the child ! " 

I rose and dressed, feeling my utter loneliness more than I 
can tell you. The breakfast-bell rang. I opened my door, 
only to run into the arms of my fair neighbor. I ran back- 
ward at that, thereby upsetting the " darling boy," who was 
insisting upon taking his drum and horn to the breakfast table. 
I begged pardon and took up Ernie. The lady turned to me. 
I knew it in a moment — that clear, sweet profile ; those large, 
dark eyes — and there was a simultanous cry of " Gertie," 
" Ernest," as our hands met. 

" Mamma," said the child, making his pretty eyes big with 
wonder, " is he Ernest ? Is that me growed up ? " 

Gertie laughed and blushed. I threw the boy, drum and horn 
to my shoulder, and led the way to the breakfast room. 

Two months passed, and my bachelor-heart had learned to 
pit-a-pat at the very rustle of Gertrude's dress. She was still 
at the hotel, but beyond that I knew nothing of her history since 
we met. From her dark mourning I knew that she was a 
widow. I knew that Ernie's name was Ernest Bell — named 
for me she said — but beyond that I was in ignorance. We 
were " Gertie," and " Ernest " to each other, and excepting her 
reserve as to her own history, frank and free as we were in the 
olden times. So I grew to love her ; and the time came when I 
decided I would risk all at one throw. It was a beautiful, clear 
evening in March when I asked Gertie if she would walk with 
me. She hesitated a moment, and then consented. Ernie was 



2U THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

put to bed and we started. Gertie looked very pretty that 
night. I remember even the little curl which lay on her fore- 
head. I, who loved her so — who took her that night to tell her 
that I loved her — led her to speak of herself, and for the first 
time she told me her story. She told it to me stonily and calmly, 
as though her lips but obeyed her will, though her heart broke ; 
and this was the story. 

She was no widow, only a deserted wife. Herself and child 
were left alone in the world. She worked for a living and 
made it. She was — my brother Charlie's wife. 

Then we turned and went home ; and, Gertrude lingering at 
the door a moment, said: 

" Brother Ernie, you will not desert us, will you ? " 

I stooped and kissed her, and then, speaking no word, went 
to my room. 

There was between us no bar of birth or wealth, but worse, 
and forever — my brother Charlie. And so the words which 
I hoped would win me a wife were never spoken, and I am 
still Ernest Bell, bachelor; but under my protecting wing I 
have my sister Gertrude and my namesake Ernie, who, by the 
way astonished me very much the other day by remarking: 

" Uncle Jack, ain't it time you was ditting married ? I'm 
in love a' ready ! " 

The little rogue ! The idea of Ernie being in love ! Soit! 

For the New York Mercury. October 20, 1886. 



TOsTDEK THE HILLS 

" What are you writing, Cousin Ernie ? " asked little Lelia, 
eclipsing my paper with her golden head. 

" Out of the way," I commanded, savagely. " I'm philoso- 
phizing." 

Whereupon I kiss her pouting lips, and do not box her ears, 
although she has wiped out my best sentences with her curls. 
Then, Lelia, womanlike, though repulsed, upon seeing the 
faintest signs of weakness in the enemy's fortifications, re- 



EAELY PROSE WOKKS 245 

doubles the attack, smiled winningly in my face, and recom- 
menced : 

" You know, Cousin Ernie, you don't want to write 
philosophy ? " 

"Not? Why not, pray?" 

" Oh, 'cause it ain't cunning." 

Lelia has a great idea of things being cunning. 

" Of course," I reply, " if my philosophy isn't cunning, I 
don't want to write it, so what shall I write ? " 

" Oh, I know! " cried the child, clapping her hands, " write 
a love story." 

" A love story, Puss ! Where will I get the lady ? " 

Lelia stands at the window looking dreamily over the autumn- 
tinted hills, down the little path which winds along their side, 
then turns to me and says: 

" Cousin Ernie, don't you remember last summer when we 
all went down there," pointing to the little footpath which 
lies like a silver thread in green velvet ; " write about that." 

I sadden suddenly. The child's smile cast a shadow over me ; 
I wish she would leave me. And, as if divining my wish, she 
suddenly darts through the low window, and down to the lawn, 
in chase of a gay-coated butterfly. I can hear her ringing 
laugh as the wind brings it back, but it does not make me smile. 
I am thinking about another chase after a butterfly, and of 
another autumn-afternoon, more fair than this ; and, half uncon- 
sciously I turn to my paper, and write as Lelia bade me. 

My Uncle George had visitors then, as he generally did during 
the summer months ; and what with riding, boating, and danc- 
ing, I had no time for philosophizing, nor had I the desire, 
since among my uncle's guests Fannie Clarke was numbered. 
This summer was the first time I had ever seen her, and she came 
upon me with all her attractions enhanced by novelty. I was 
young, romantic and affectionate; consequently I had not been 
two weeks under the same roof with Fannie Clarke before I 
loved her dearly. 

Are these sudden loves less lasting than those of slower 
growth ? I have sometimes thought so, but I surely know not. 
As the sweet summer ripened and deepened into autumn, it 



246 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

brought me the one great joy of a man's life; I was Fannie 
Clarke's affianced husband, and she had told me over and over 
again that she loved me. Among the guests there was one, 
a young man that I never liked. He was graceful and agree- 
able enough, and a great " catch," I believe ; but the shy glit- 
ter of his sharp eye, and the cat-like fall of his footstep, and 
a general air of cunning warned me that he was unworthy of 
trust. To this man Fannie showed much attention, preferring 
him for her walks and rides when I could not be in attendance, 
and at all times treating him with a deferential courtesy for 
which I could not account. 

True love is never suspicious. I was not jealous of George 
Sharp. I never imagined for one moment that Fannie' s atten- 
tions were other than those called out by his own merits as a 
companion, but I did not like my darling's pure mind to be 
influenced for one moment by that of a man my instinct con- 
demned. I spoke to her of it. She laughed, kissed me lightly 
on the forehead, told me in a pretty caressing way that I was 
a dear, foolish fellow, and ran away to walk with George 
Sharp. I laughed at my own fears, and at Fannie's playful 
disregard of them; so when she returned and slyly slipped her 
hand in mine, I could do nothing else but kiss the pouting 
lips, and call her my naughty darling. 

It was in August, the last of the month, when some of the 
girls came in and proposed a picnic in the woods. There 
were eight couples of us, counting my little niece, Lelia, and 
her ten-year old beau, Charlie, and among all not one dissenting 
voice. The day was delightful. Above us bent the soft, blue 
sky, flecked with fleecy clouds; beneath our feet rolled the 
emerald green, dotted here and there with summer flowers. We 
sent hampers before us, luxuriously filled, and we followed 
at our leisure. We had a mile-long walk through a green, 
winding lane. Oh, now at this time, how well I remember it ! 
That was the happiest hour of my life. Fannie walked by me, 
a little subdued from her usual high spirits, but so sweetly 
womanly, so prettily gracious, that I could scarcely refrain from 
folding her in my arms and kissing her then and there. Once 
I said to her softly: 

" Fannie, Fannie ! It would kill me to lose you." 



EAKLY PROSE WORKS 247 

Her reply I understood better afterward. 

" Ernie, don't think too much of me now, and by-and-by 
don't be too severe a judge." 

We entered the shadow of the wood then, and Fannie left 
my side to assist aunt in opening the hampers. Fannie was 
so helpful and thoughtful. I watched her pink dress fluttering 
in and out the trees for some time, then threw myself upon a 
luxurious mossy bank, and fell to dreaming over " Camille." 
The somnolence of air and sky, the drowsy whir of insects, and 
the soft warmth of the sunshine as it trickled through the leaves, 
overpowered me ; Fannie's pink dress, my dreams, and Camille, 
one after another slipped away, and I slept. 

" Get up, Ernie, Fannie and Lucy and the rest have gone 
into the coal mine, and lunch is ready. Go you and bring them 
straight here." 

My aunt's voice and hearty shake lured me immediately 
from the palace of Morpheus. I sprang up suddenly, having 
an indistinct idea that I was to go somewhere and do some- 
thing, but the where and the what were mysterious. She re- 
peated her commands again, and I prepared to obey. 

The hill on which I stood sloped rapidly into a narrow defile, 
through which rippled the yellow-tinted coal-stream. On the 
opposite side were the mines. As I went down, I saw the 
black, rugged miners scattered under the trees, taking their 
lunch, while their canine colaborers stood patiently in the 
harness and watched wistfully for spare bones and crumbs. 

" Which way did the ladies enter ? " I asked the man lying 
nearest me. 

" That'n to yer right," he replied. " Two of the b'yes hauled 
'em in." 

I entered the narrow aperture, and groped my way cau- 
tiously along the rails, stooping as the low roof obliged me. I 
called to the party, and their voices replied in the distance, 
reaching my ear with a hollow, muffled sound that was ghostly. 
Soon I could hear the rumble of the car-wheels, and then I 
saw the faint flicker of the lights which the miner-boys wear in 
their caps. Nearer and nearer they came, until they paused 
just in front of me. I missed Fannie's voice. 
" Are you all there ? " I asked. 



248 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

The answer was, " All but Fannie and George. They pre- 
ferred to walk, and explore the rooms." 

" Go on," I commanded ; " lunch is ready on the hill. I will 
find Fannie and Sharp, and follow you." 

Unable to pass the car on the narrow track, I sprang into 
it, and then out again on the opposite side, at which feat the 
ladies scolded because of crushed dresses and the gentlemen 
applauded because the ladies scolded. Then the car moved on, 
and left me to pursue my solitary search. I had taken a lamp 
from a miner's cap, but a sudden gust of air extinguished it; 
so in silent darkness I groped my way, listening for voices. 
I drew my coat closer about me, and wondered if Fannie would 
not take cold. Just then the sound of her voice came to me 
from a small room near at hand. My name was on her lips. I 
stopped and listened. 

" Ernest ? Oh, he's a dear fellow, and I know loves me 
dearly; fort for you to be jealous of him! Shame on you, 
George ! " 

The reply was quick and passionate, not at all in George 
Sharp's usual calm tones. 

" But I tell you, Fannie, I hate him. I shall murder that 
man some day, if you don't keep away from him." 

Fannie laughed, that sweet, silvery laugh, which had so often 
made music in my loving heart, which now smote it with such 
fierce pain. 

" George, dear, don't be jealous. Fannie must have her fun. 
Soon she'll be all your own, you know." 

" All his own ! " I reeled, and struck sharply against the wall. 
At the sound Sharp cried out: 

" Who's there?" 

I mastered myself fiercely. He should never know my pain ; 
and replied: 

"I — Ernest Bell. Lunch is ready. Come, hurry up, 
Sharp. Tuck Fannie under your arm, and I'll lead the way." 

So under the hill we traveled — Sharp, Fannie, and I. We 
laughed and chatted gayly as we groped along, but one heart 
had lost forever its youth, and idol, and love; one heart had 
closed the doors of its inner sanctum upon a shattered idol, 
a broken vow, and a lost love. " Fanny must have her fun." 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 249 

Over and again, the stinging words smote my shuddering heart, 
and burnt themselves there forever. I wonder, in another 
world, whether I can forget the sweet, childish innocence of 
the voice which said such cruel words, and cease to remember 
how they smote my heart. 

As we journeyed, the little light, which had seemed but a 
tiny star, enlarged and brightened, until suddenly I brought 
my followers into the full light of day. The miners were 
rousing their sleepy dogs, and preparing for afternoon toil. 
The tender blue sky dropped its silent balm upon my pained 
heart; and sweetest Mother Nature, in lieu of the mother who 
had slept in her bosom many years, comforted me. 

As we neared the gay group on the hill, little Lelia came 
running to me ; and, when I lifted her in my arms, burst into 
tears. Ah, Lelia " had lost her necklace under the hills — her 
pretty, pretty necklace that she loved so." I kissed the child, 
and promised her another more beautiful, at which she smiled, 
and clapped her hands, the tears yet lying on her lashes. Ver- 
ily, Lelia had not much to grieve for, when she could so soon 
forget. As for me, I was very miserable. I had loved, and 
did then love Fannie, very, very much. She was a part of 
myself, my dream, my hope, my joy and crown, and I had 
found her a flirt — a heartless, flippant creature, " who must 
have her fun." I treated her during the remainder of the day 
with a coolness which seemed to surprise her; and, judging 
from the bent brow, even pain her somewhat ; and when we went 
home, there was a shadow on every face, born, perhaps, with 
the one so quickly darkened. 

This, then was the story that Lelia, in her childish ignorance 
would have me write out. I wrote it dreaming the tender dream 
over again, even tho' it brought back the old pain. I had 
never seen Fannie since, having left home before dawn the next 
morning. I had not even heard of her marriage (which I sup- 
pose took place), nor, since my return, had uncle or aunt men- 
tioned her name. 

" Cousin Ernie ; Cousin Ernie," (Lelia would never call me 
uncle) " there's a carriage coming up the drive." 

I took my hat and followed Lelia' s impatient feet out to 



250 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

the piazza. Aunt Jane was there before me; and she was wel- 
coming a lady in deep mourning, folding her in her motherly 
arms with even more than Aunt Jane's usual tenderness. And 
the lady — as she lifted her deep crape veil, I recognized 
Fannie of one year ago, but a softer, sweeter, more womanly 
spirit smiled from her eyes. I knew from intuition that Fan- 
nie had been tried in the fire. ~No need of the mourning-gar- 
ments to tell me that she had mourned ; and that she was com- 
forted, the holy calm upon her brow proclaimed. 

Acting from impulse, I walked away and sought my own 
room. I could not then speak to Fannie; I must first learn 
control. Sitting alone that quiet afternoon, I searched my own 
heart and still found it filled with one image, one name, — Fan- 
nie. 

The tea-bell rang unheeded, and the twilight was veiling the 
earth when Aunt Jane entered my room. She laid her hand 
softly on my head. 

" Ernie,'' she said, " I have something to say to you — about 
Fannie. I noticed that you did not welcome her. Dear boy, 
I used to fancy that you cared for her, but somehow things went 
wrong. Poor Fannie ! let me tell you her story. I am afraid 
she was a sad flirt. At all events, she was blamed a great deal ; 
but Fannie never thought. That was her greatest fault. About 
ten months ago she married George Sharp. He converted her 
personal property into money; and two weeks after marriage 
left for Europe. He died on the way of heart disease, and 
Fannie was a widow. Then her parents were taken sick, and 
after long illness, both died. Ernest, fatherless, motherless, and 
a widow, Fannie has come home. If she ever grieved you, can't 
you forgive her ? " 

Forgive her? My whole heart leaped and throbbed to know 
that she might yet be worthy. Aunt went on : 

" She never loved her husband, but to please her father and 
mother she married him. She was the tenderst and most faith- 
ful of daughters while she nursed him and her mother. Ernie 
dear, Fannie has been purified by suffering." 

Then Aunt Jane left me, and after a while I strolled out 
to the piazza. The silent stars were setting their watch- 
lights in the Heavens, and Mars already showed his ruddy 



EAELY PKOSE WORKS 251 

gleam above the horizon. The trellised roses trembled in the 
evening air, and shook rare odors from their overflowing vines. 
In their shadow I saw Fannie standing. She was not thinking 
of roses, but her quiet face was lifted to the sky, with an ex- 
pression of such perfect peace and holiness upon it, that I mur- 
mured involuntarily : 

" One would unconsciously paint her 
With a halo round her hair." 

I stood for a moment observing her, then advanced. 

" Fannie." 

" Ernest." 

There was no need of words. We understood, she and I, all 
that time had wrought and strengthened ; and as, hand in hand, 
we watched the stars come out, both felt that in the darkness of 
our lives, some stars had dawned. 

As the weeks passed by, we knew each other better, Fannie 
and I, and I opened again the inner sanctum of my heart and 
set up my idol again. I mended the vows which were broken 
and found my love which was lost. 

So I forgot the darkness which had fallen upon me under 
the hills, and came out into the clear sunlight of happiness. 

For the New York Mercury. December 15, 1866. 



OVER THE RIVER 

My window overlooked the Potomac — that bright, curving 
branch which runs like a silver cord through green velvet. 
And a little rustic bridge spans it, over which the gaudy Vir- 
ginia creeper runs riot ; from either bank its clinging tendrils 
reach the bridge, and mantle it, until the floating greenness 
lies upon the water beneath. In the distance the pine-clad 
mountains loom gradually up, and the blue sky bends to meet 
it. 

From the river, a smooth, green lawn rises gradually until 
a pretty Gothic building breaks its monotony. On either side 
of the house are trees and flowers. This is my view. Since 



252 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

my lameness, I have learned to sit patiently at the window, and 
be happy. 

Shut out by my terrible calamity from the active pursuits and 
pleasures of men, I can now look at my helpless feet, once so 
willing and able, without a shudder. I could not do so at 
the time I write. The swift young blood was coursing through 
my veins; the strong young heart beat impatiently about its 
cage. I could not humbly bow to the will of God. So young 
and so full of fresh youth; ready to launch into a manhood 
which promised so well, what wonder if heart and soul grew 
sick at the thought of being debarred forever from this — a 
lame, miserable man until death should release me. 

The glory of the setting sun has faded from river and clouds. 
The solemn mountains melt into the dusky sky. Silently the 
evening-star rises into sight, and the silver crescent hangs above 
her. I turn from the scene. In coming night an inexpressible 
sadness overpowers me. I will tell my story, for it is like this 
evening — quiet and sad, lighted by the tender radiance of the 
evening star. 

When I was twenty-two, I had already entered into mer- 
cantile life, with every prospect of success. My father, dying, 
left me a moderate fortune. This was my setting out in life. 
Early orphaned, I yet never knew my loss until my grand- 
mother also died, leaving me her blessing, and an education 
which could not fail me in my journey through life. So, at 
twenty-two, young, strong, active, my heart thrilling with high 
hopes. I was very happy. 

One evening, it was August, I think, I was returning from 
the store when I heard the cry " Eire." An eager crowd 
forced me with them, and I soon stood before the burning build- 
ing. It was a handsome residence, but of wooden structure, 
and stood already wrapped in flames. The firemen were risk- 
ing life and limb in their efforts to save property ; but now, one 
by one, they slid down the ladders and left the house to its 
certain fate. 

" Can't do no more," said one, " the rafters is caught a'ready." 

Suddenly I saw a sight which froze my blood. It was the 
apparition of a young girl at the turret-window, her hair flying 
from her pale face, her slender arms outstretched pleadingly 



EAELY PEOSE WORKS 253 

for help. I shall never forget that scene — never ! never ! 
Framed in by the hungry flames and the black shrouding smoke, 
calmly she stood, waiting for aid. 

"Too late!" shouted the firemen. "Too late!" 

" Too late ! never ! " I cried. " A ladder, for God's sake, a 
ladder ! " 

Some one placed one against the wall. I sprang up, calling 
out for the girl to stand still. Up, up! until the hot flames 
licked my face and scorched my hands. One moment more, and 
the girl's feet were on the ladder; step by step she descended. 

" Quick, quick ! " shouted the multitude below me. " The 
wall is falling ! " 

I turned to follow — then there was a confused sound of 
voices cheering and crying — of crushing timbers ; and above 
all, I could hear the crackling of the flames. Then I knew no 
more. All of life merged into a sense of falling. When I 
awoke, I was in a darkened room. I tried to move, but the 
sharp pain brought back memory. My scarred hands told their 
story. I knew, then, all there was to know, that I was lamed ; 
that never again could I be as I had been — never again ! I 
buried my face in the pillow and sobbed aloud. All the pent-up 
agony of my heart found vent then. I wept for my lost youth, 
and marred hands. I prayed for patience; and in praying, 
groaned that I had need for it. My nurse came in — through 
all my agony I had been grateful for solitude — the kind old 
lady, who had been my grandmother's housekeeper, and talked 
to me tenderly and wisely. She soothed me but I was not re- 
signed. It took many bitter lessons to teach me resignation. 
As I grew better, I began to long for change of scene. My 
sensitive mind shrank from old acquaintances. I did not like 
to hobble on crutches through the street, my pale gaunt face 
asking for pity. There were many kind inquiries for me at 
the door ; many baskets of fruit and bouquets left for me ; but 
I refused, with a morbid sensitiveness, from seeing any one. 
And as soon as I could be removed, Jane, my faithful nurse 
and I left the city, and rented this little rose-nest of a cottage, 
where, at least, I could bear my burden in solitude. And now 
my chief employment was to sit at my window. 

Already the opening spring was arousing the birds to gayety ; 



254 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

and day by day the tender leaves opened their coy hearts to 
the sunshine. The Gothic house opposite became interesting 
to me. At first, my sensitive dread of strangers made me 
carefully avoid even so much as glancing that way; but after 
which, I made friends with them as I did with the trees and 
stars. I used to watch them in and about their dwelling, and 
conjecture as to whom they were, and whether they were happy. 

There was an old man, who used to sit in the afternoon-sun- 
shine, with thin white hair, and a bowed form, and a little child 
— his grandchild, I knew — with floating curls, and light 
feet. Then there was a lady, scarce middle-aged, who was the 
mother of the child, and a widow, I imagined, from her mourn- 
ing. 

There was another inmate of the house, one that I grew to 
watch for, more than all the rest. A young girl with fair hair, 
and a holy face — a face that I had seen before, I could not 
remember when or where, but I knew that I had seen her. And 
she grew into my heart. Her pretty, motherly ways toward 
the willful little pet, her gentle kindness to the lady, and above 
all, her thoughtful tenderness to the old father, won my constant 
love. 

I used to sit and listen as she read to him, sitting at his feet. 
I could hear no word, but still the reading did me good. 
" Over the river " grew to be my solace and comfort. It was 
such a warm, bright ribbon of a river, that I never felt utterly 
divided from them. After a while they grew to noticing me, 
and the little child sometimes blew me kisses from her dimpled 
hand, and ran off laughing. I could hear the silver ripples of 
her childish voice, faintly, as she flew. 

After a time, the old man, when he took his arm-chair on the 
piazza, would bow to me, and the young lady would look over 
at my window. The day never was so dark that her smile could 
not light it up for me. I grew to watch for her coming, and 
she seldom failed to reward me during the morning. 

As the summer advanced, I missed the child. She was never 
among the flowers. The butterflies no longer eluded her tiny 
hands. Her light feet bounded over the lawn no more; and 
when once I caught the gleam of her curls against the window, 
I saw that some one held her. The old grandfather sat less 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 255 

often in his easy-chair, and the mother I could see flitting about 
the room where I had seen the child. The young lady never 
read to her father now, and she never smiled when she glanced 
at my window. I grew restless, troubled and uneasy. Sadly 
and slowly a week passed, and the old peaceful life across the 
river was not resumed. The lawn and gravelled walks re- 
mained unrolled, the gate was open, and the flowers bloomed 
untended. 

One bright afternoon, I saw the child's curls shining at the 
window. She was lying in some one's arms. Then I saw 
her sweet face turned toward my window; and she blew me a 
kiss from her tiny hand, faintly, I thought, and wearily. I 
returned the salute with an aching heart. I knew that my little 
star was ill. 

That afternoon, intense suffering kept me prisoner to my 
chair; but the next morning, for the first time in months, I 
took my crutches and left the cottage. Slowly and painfully 
I took my way across the rustic bridge, and up the winding road. 
I had no thought of my lameness and pallid face then. It was 
as I thought. From the door floated the insignia of woe. The 
child was dead. I had watched them so long and tenderly. 
They had been so long the only link between me and my fellow- 
men, that in this child's death a star had fallen from my sky. 
My weakened nerves fluttered, strained, proved false to my 
manhood. I sank to a garden-chair and wept. 

I do not know how long I sat there, my face buried in my 
hands, before I felt a light hand on my shoulder, and looking up, 
I met the calm sad face of the young girl. 

" Do not weep," she said, though tears were in her own eyes. 
" She is happy." 

I did not speak. My heart was too full. 

" She used to watch you with interest," she added, softly ; 
" and just before she died, would be taken to the window to 
see you and throw you a kiss." 

" I missed her," I replied, " and could not stay away — the 
dear, dear little child." 

After that, we spoke of her tenderly, as old friends might 
do, since we both had loved her; and she told me all her store 
of memories ; all the child had said of " the lame gentleman 



256 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

opposite," and how she had wished that he might walk again. 

Then we went in to see her little form. She was lying in her 
little crib at the open window. The pure scent of the June- 
roses came softly in ; and the light breeze missing its playmate, 
and finding her here, stirred the curls slightly upon her pillow. 
She seemed sleeping, but the look upon her face was not the 
smile of sleep. The " peace which passeth understanding " 
had settled there, and on the childish brow we saw the seal of 
God. 

I could not kiss the child. My weak mortality shrank from 
her immortality. There was between us a great gulf fixed. 
I knew that a stream broader and deeper than our little river 
flowed between us, and that never could I see the golden shining 
of her curls on that farther shore, never catch the faintest echo 
of her laughing, nor return the playful salute. 

I did not notice the old man sitting in the shadow, with his 
face in his hands, until the young girl said : 

" Father, the lame gentleman opposite has come to see our 
baby." 

Then he lifted his head a little, but it sank again. 

" Ah," he said, " she grew fond of you ; only yesterday, she 
threw you a kiss, sir. The child is an angel now." 

Then the old man fell to mourning, rocking his feeble form to 
and fro. The young girl softly kissed his forehead, and led the 
way from the room. 

As we passed the drawing-room door, I saw the mother of 
the child. She was weaving flowers into a wreath for the little 
one's coffin, and her tears fell on every petal. 

" You will come to-morrow," the young girl said, brokenly. 

" I will come," I replied, and pressing her hand, I turned 
away. 

The next day, I was again prisoner in my room, but I sat 
at my window all day. How tenderly it waned! Softly the 
sun sank into a sea of mellow autumn-tints, and the cool evening 
breeze came up from the dimpled river, when the sad, black- 
plumed hearse led the train from the house. Slowly and sadly 
the procession wound along the silver-sanded road, and so out 
of sight. I could see it all — the milk-white rosebuds in a 
crown upon the coffin, the cross of white lilies at its foot, heavier 



EARLY PEOSE WOKKS 257 

than any cross that little child had ever borne; the sad, tender 
face of the young girl ; the feeble old man, leaning on the weep- 
ing mother's arm, and the few friends that were there. 

As they passed, the young girl looked at my window. I 
know not if she smiled, or if it were my fancy, but my heavy 
heart grew lighter, and a great peace came upon my soul. 

I bowed my head upon the window-sill ; and the sad, sad train 
moved on under the shadowy trees, around the hill, and so from 
my view. 

After that, for many weeks I never lifted my head from my 
pillow. The low fever burnt itself out. I saw none of the 
solemn changes of the summer leaves. Before my weakened 
head could lift itself, September had come with all her glories 
in her train. 

During my illness I had been conscious of almost daily visits 
from a fair face that I knew; but whether it were real or but 
a vision, I dared not ask. Flowers and dainty fruits came to 
my room from " over the river," Jane said, and I knew that 
they did not forget me. 

One afternoon, Jane consented to wheel my bed near the 
window. How glorious it was ! The mountains, no longer 
green, but amber, and crimson, and gold, vied vainly with the 
western sky. The Virginia-creeper on the bridge trailed crim- 
son leaves along the water. Here and there stripped branches 
laid their delicate tracery against the sky. The darling river 
bore many leaves upon its bosom, and the tender grass was get- 
ting brown. Over the river the gaudy chrysanthemums were 
in flower, the dahlias, and a few monthly roses, but the warm 
summer sunshine was over all, and brightening all. 

While I sat silently at my window, though I was conscious 
of no door opening, I knew that I was not alone. There was a 
quick, light step, and the fair girl from over the river was at 
my bedside. 

" You are better ? " she asked, simply. 

" Much," I replied ; " almost well. Will you sit down ? " 

Unheeding my question, she laid her soft dear hand on 
mine. How her touch thrilled me ! Mine closed softly upon 
it. 

" I have something to say to you," she said, at last breaking 



258 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

the silence that had fallen upon us. " Since you have been 
sick I have been here often, and I have learned — Oh me, Gary 
— that — that — " her voice trembled, she controlled it, and 
added steadily — " that I am to blame for all this suffering ! " 

Slowly sinking to her knees, and hiding her fair face in 
her hands, she said: 

" My name is Alice Hamilton." 

" Ah, I knew that name. This, then, was the one whose life 
I had saved; this the being for whom I have suffered! " 

Like the rush of a strong river, the flood of happiness rolled 
over my soul. Again I saw the fair face framed in its terrible 
framing, and now I knew that I had saved her. I forgot my 
seared face, my lameness, my suffering. I only remembered 
that I had saved her life, and that she was kneeling before me. 

" O God I thank thee ! " came from my lips, and Alice, 
looking up, said : 

" Then you do not hate me ? " 

" Hate you ? Shall I tell you, that having saved you I am 
happy ; that for the first time since it happened, I am resigned." 

" Oh, what shall I do to repay you, my savior % " Alice sobbed 
aloud. Her tender heart ached to see my woe. 

I laid my hand on her bowed head. What I said I know not, 
but I knew that it was madness ; yet the words came, and I spoke 
them. 

And Alice ? She rose silently from her knees with a rapt 
face, such a holy light upon her face, and bending over me, 
pressed her lips to mine. 

" My love — my dearest — " 

Then between us two there came a happy pause. She knelt 
again beside me, and there was no word said. I knew that to 
her the scarred face was not hateful ; to her the lame feet very 
dear. I trusted in her love. I knew that she was happy by the 
great, solemn joy that broke upon my own soul. 

When she left me that afternoon, the sun was setting. I 
watched her light form flitting across the bridge. At the farther 
end she turned, smiled upon me, and then was gone. How like 
a dream it all was — a happy, happy dream ! My grateful 
heart uplifted to its Father — sanctified because of joy. 

Another morning. Over the river, the dear old gentleman 



EARLY PROSE WOEKS 259 

sits in sunshine, and his daughter reads to him. At my window 
I sit and watch them; but there is a dear face close to mine, 
clinging arms are about my neck, and a voice — the voice of 
all the world to me — says : 

" Paul, my darling. Can't we go over and see father and 
Mary to-day i n 

I think so. I can walk far better now. My health is rugged 
now ; and if I am to walk lamely all my life, I have a tender 
darling, strong in her weakness, who loves me — an angel who 
has flown, to heal my aching heart, from over the river. 

For the New York Mercury. December 22, 1866. 



THE GRACEFUL PEN OF ERNEST BELL THUS 
SKETCHES OUR STREET 

We have a little short street, girt about by larger ones, set 
like a garden-plot among the closer city-dwellings. Looking 
down we can see the street cars whirl along, and from the high- 
est houses we can see the white sails of our stately ships ; but 
here come none of the hurry and bustle of trade ; here can come 
no ceaseless turmoil of machinery ; even the whistle of the loco- 
motive, softened by distance, reaches us pleasantly. 

In the summertime, the birds flutter among the trees that 
line the street. All winter, the red berries of the mountain-ash 
blush beneath the snow, and the constant evergreens stand up 
proudly in their summer robes. 

Each house has its plot of grass, its clinging vines, and bed 
of flowers in front ; some of them have odorous fruit-trees, 
which laden the summer-air with sweets, and set the greedy 
honey-bees almost insane because of too much sweetness. 

We are not in want of the comforts of life for a beautiful 
church holds the cross aloft not two squares distant; and a 
stone's throw from us, though not on the street, are congregated 
a grocery, a bakery, a saddlery, a meat-shop, and a thread-and- 
needle store. So we live a life by ourselves. The great city is 
a myth. 

In our little world we grieve and are happy; we scold, and 



260 THE OLD SCBAP BOOK 

kiss, and gossip ; and we all love our neighbors, if not as our- 
selves, at least as they deserve. There are very few little folks 
in the street, consequently every baby is a prodigy. We treas- 
ure their sweet and pretty sayings with all the pride of possess- 
ing an ownership in them. 

" My dear," said Mrs. , to her little three-year-older, 

" Mamma doesn't like to see you fill your mouth so full." 

" Well," replied Miss Kitty, coolly, " I'm sure you needn't 
look at me then." 

That's a specimen of our babies. 

But the houses are changing hands. Even Miss Kitty left 
last week for ISTew York. Scarcely a year ago, from the door 
below us floated the insignia of woe, " Some one is dead ! " 

Ah ! but that did not tell the story of a desolated home ; that 
did not tell how, urged by a morbid melancholy, the poor mother 
stepped boldly into the river of death and looked not back; 
how we spoke to her young daughters tenderly, and pitied them 
in love. 

Three weeks later, there was a wedding next door. Was 
there ever a sweeter bride or handsomer groom ? How rich in 
happiness the future seemed for them! Eortune had poured 
its treasure at their feet. 

Alas! In six weeks time, ere the bridal wreaths had with- 
ered, the bride was again clad in her bridal robes; but this 
time, as we looked upon her face, we wept. 

Six brief weeks. Only that, and yet the house was desolate, 
and but a bright curl or two remained of the darling. 

After these sad afflictions, our neighbors left their home, 
choosing other scenes, and strangers took their places. 

To-day, chill, comfortless, dreary, with a leaden sky above, 
and the ceaseless patter of November rain upon the fallen 
leaves, which have lost their glory of amber and gold; to-day 
when the sweet sun should shine its benison, there is to be an- 
other wedding. 

God grant that her bridal-wreath serve not to crown the 
coffin. They two go from us upon an untried road — young and 
strong, full of hope they go — and reverently we bid them God 
speed. 

Last week came to our street two little strangers ^— so little 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 261 

and so helpless that we almost feared to touch them. I think 
there never was a brighter morning than that in which they 
came. It was as though, to teach them by degrees the differ- 
ence between heaven and earth, God left them for a little while 
the brightness of heaven. They were so sweet that their 
Maker duplicated them. We could not tell them apart ; but be- 
fore evening of the first day, He had chosen one of them, and its 
innocent young life was closed. Not for it were the shoals and 
quicksands of the world; not for it sorrow, and temptation, 
and death, for it had lived so brief a life that it could be hardly 
said to die. 

I have seen a child with its pet lamb in the field. It was 
held by a cord. When it strayed too near the dangerous river, 
the child would quietly draw him back to safety. So this angel- 
soul, used to the celestial asphodels, must not stray beyond its 
confines. Its tender Shepherd, holding yet the chain, has drawn 
it gently back. 

Who can comprehend this awful mystery of death ? Here is 
a little child, whose eyes have just opened upon the world — 
born to suffer a few hours ; to moan his little life away — here 
his brother, seemingly as helpless and as innocent, remains — 
for what? God alone knows. 

His feet may learn to climb, or fail him at the lowest step. 
Ah ! they may go astray and wander blindly from the right ; 
his little hands may grasp at the glory of a crown, or stain their 
purity with sin ! And the little soul which went to Paradise to- 
day, may smile to see the ripening and purifying of its brother- 
soul — through grief. 

As I think of them, my eyes fill with tears, and I tremble 
more for the little child who breathes than for his brother, so 
early laid away under the leaves. 

JSTo need to praise the tender beauties of that bitter essay, for 
every reader will appreciate them at once. 

January 12, 1867. 



262 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 



MY TROUBADOUR 

To write a romance may be pleasant ; to live one must be pain- 
ful. In novels there is a witchery about them; in real life, 
there is but misery. A romance is like a cloud : as it sails above 
us, in the far distance, how beautiful! how delicate! how en- 
chanting! What gorgeous coloring! what endless variety! 
what perfection! But as we stand upon the mountain and 
view these bright poetic clouds beneath our feet, how are they 
altered! They roll suddenly along, dull-leaden gray, vapory, 
with not a vestige of their former beauty. Gone the color, the 
delicacy, the enchantment ; and but the damp vaporous mass is 
left to warn you of a coming storm. So now, I, who have read 
romances and lived them, write, so now I think. I had not 
perhaps, a life more eventful than others, but about every one 
there is a romance. Mine was not an exception. My beautiful 
visions were but dreams ; my castles in the air but fancies ; my 
idols, were but clay; and my luscious fruits have turned to 
ashes on my lips. That is the penalty of Eve's transgression ; 
that is the miracle of the curse unrevoked, in so far that we 
must suffer. Of this I do not intend to write. 

These happy Christmas times, when the snow is robing the 
earth in holiday attire, and the spruce and the holly are ready 
to be plucked; when the children's eyes are brighter, and pa- 
rents' hearts are younger! I will recall no sad tale, but will 
give you my first romance as I lived it — my beautiful cloud 
with the silver lining, which melted away in a shower of tears 
and a burst of laughter. 

To commence then. Once upon a time, as the children say, 
I was born. For this I have the veracity of my parents, as I 
don't remember it. My parent was not inclined to oleaginous 
productions, but made a fortune in some less slippery manner. 
He had a well-furnished house, a good table, plenty of servants, 
and a handsome team. I was his oldest daughter. My sister 
was what sisters generally are, a troublesome comfort, or a com- 
fortable trouble, as it happened. 

Upon this occasion she was neither, being away at school. 
My mother was dead — and I, pretty, young, romantic, and 



EAELY PROSE WORKS 263 

seventeen, was my father's housekeeper. I had grown out of 
short dresses and the nursery, into long ones and the drawing- 
room before I knew that Robinson Crusoe was a myth, and that 
" The Sorrows of Werther " were not reliable. How I wept 
over " The Romance of the Forest," and delighted in " Thaddeus 
of Warsaw." I had not been allowed many novels, conse- 
quently the few impressed my mind deeply. My little maid, 
Barbara, was accustomed to get these for me and peruse them 
herself. This same maid was a character in her way — pretty, 
bright, and romantic. I used her for a friend in my loneliness. 
She was not, I am afraid, taught to know her place. In fact, 
Barbara hadn't any particular province ; but if I linger on Bar- 
bara, I shall never — never reach " my troubadour." 

" Miss Nettie, it's him," cried Barbara, excitedly, pushing her 
rosy face into my door one night as I was brushing my hair. 

" Him ! Who's him % " asked I, looking up. 

" Oh, don't you know, Miss Nettie? It's the young man 
that's been a watchin' about yer for ever so long ! " 

" A young man, Barbara ; you must be crazy. What do you 
mean? " 

" Why, Miss Nettie, aren't you seen 'im ? 'E's been habout 
hever so long; and maybe 'e'll come with a black 'orse and a 
great cloak with a long black tail, an' all covered with foam, 
and carry you hofr like the bewitched bridegroom hin the story ! 
Oh, Miss Nettie! 'E's a tuning hup'." 

Tuning up, he surely was, for now I heard the thrumming of 
a guitar. I turned down the light, raised the window, though it 
was a chilly night, and prepared to listen to what promised to 
be my first serenade. 

I could not see the form below my window, but in a moment a 
strong, manly voice arose, accompanied by the guitar, and my 
little maid and I could distinguish this song, as it is written : 

" Lady of me love, awaken, 
List . . . song to-night; 
For . . . forsaken, 

. . . me soul's delight." 

" Oh, Miss Nettie," sighed Barbara, ecstatically, " hain't hit 
'eavenly? Hain't it beau-ti-ful? He's the knight hin dis- 
guise — a count, maybe — hand just to think, Miss, of havin' 



264 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

a lover sit minder one's winder and sing you to wake — 
o-o-oh ! — " 

Here Barbara clapped her hands convulsively from very joy. 

"Lady ... me heart's devotion, 
For ... I'd gladly die; 
. . . me heart's emotion 
Rises to thee tenderly." 

sang the troubadour. Then there was a sudden hoist of a win- 
dow, an indignant head thrust out, and an indignant voice 
growled out: 

" Shut up that confounded noise, can't you ? What do you 
mean by arousing honest folks by your infernal caterwauling % " 

Whereupon the troubadour shouldered his guitar and came 
out into full view of my window. 

" Oh ! Miss," sighed Barbara, " it's jest like a play — yers 
the beautiful maiden; yer's the lover, who's 'eart's like to 
break ; hand yere's the hangry father, 'e'll forbid your lover to 
speak to you ; hand you'll meet him hin the harbor ; hand — 
hand — oh, Miss ! he's agoin', hand you haven't throwed him 
nothin' ! " 

I took Barbara's reproachful hint, disengaged a rosebud from 
the bouquet on the table and let it fall. The troubadour picked 
it up, pressed it to his heart (I thought so then ; I'm afraid now 
that he only put it in his pocket) and walked away, urged 
thereto by my father's impatient : " Come, come ! you'd better 
be off. It's a confounded cold night to take a shower bath." 

" Oh, Miss Nettie," sighed Barbara, reluctantly drawing her 
head in from the window ; " 'ow happy you must be, 'aving a 
lover which is unbeknown, hand a guitar which is a fine singer, 
hand an unfeeling father to horder him hoff, hand a harbor to 
meet him hin." 

Now, though I am quite as romantic as my little maid, I 
frowned upon her volubility, and sent her away. As she left 
the room, I heard the attic window above mine slide cautiously 
down. Susan, the cook, slept there. I thought no more of it. 

I closed my window, stirred up my fire, and sat down to get 
warm and to dream of my lover. He was that, I knew — the 
first lover that I had ever had. Where had he met me ? Had 
he seen me at church, and followed me home ? Had he seen me 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 265 

on the street, or my face at the window, and then and there been 
captivated ? I could not say I did not wish to know. The de- 
lightful mystery but added a charm to the reality. 

I went to bed, and I think I must have dreamed of my trou- 
badour quite as much as my little maid, though the next morn- 
ing she brought me timidly a copy of the verses she had written, 
and said : 

" I was thinkin', Miss Nettie, hif hi had a lover as come 
hunder my window, 'ow I'd give him these tender verses, hand 
I writ these." 

They ran thus, as Barbara read them : 

" Ho, dear one w'ich is unbeknown, 
Who lingerest hat my winder; 
Who plays hon 'is guitar halone, 
W'en there hain't no one to hinder. 



Some knight you must be in disguise, 
Nor 'twouldn't be surprising 

Fur knights, hunless our 'istry lies, 
Was alius for disguisin'. 



But who you hare I cannot say, 
Sinse hi ham not so knowin'; 

Hi honly saw the tender way 
You 'ad w'en you was goin'." 



" W'en that stern voice — " 

" That's your father I meant there," said Barbara, holding her 
finger on the line ; " hit was more poetic-like than sayin' Mr. 
Croft's, you know. Where was hi ? Oh, yes, 

" When that stern voice so cruel-ly 
Between hour fon 'earts comin', 
Jest as you sed fur me you'd die, 

Stopt hall your pleasant thrummin'." 

" That's hall I've got writ, Miss," said Barbara, apologeti- 
cally, as she finished the poem. " But I've got more like h'it hin 
my head." 

" Keep it there, Barbara," I said severely. " I should advise 
you to keep it there, by all means." 

Barbara blushed, and hung her head. Two, three, four 
nights, and no more of my troubadour. It was all in vain that 



266 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

I left my lamp burn late, and kept the shades up ; equally in vain 
that I put out the lamp, and drew down the shades. He came 
not. Barbara was in raptures — I, in misery. You under- 
stand our relative situations: Barbara was looking at a ro- 
mance, and I (as I fancied) was living one. My father went 
away for two weeks. The night after his departure, it was 
nearly midnight before I caught the first strains of the guitar. 
My little maid was just as quick. (It's my belief the little 
minx had been listening at the parlor window.) She came rush- 
ing into my apartment, sans ceremonie, and cried, " Oh, Miss 
Nettie, 'e's come back. The hangry father's gone haway, hand 
the hinnercent lover's come back." And there he was, sure 
enough. This time he played a gay waltz, keeping time with 
a very heavy foot. 

" Hain't hit 'eavenly ? " Barbara was out of breath. After 
the waltz another song, and then my troubadour stepped boldly 
out into the moonlight — then he called out in a hoarse voice : 

" Darlin', are ye there ? " 

" Hanswer 'im, Miss Nettie," pleaded Barbara, clasping her 
pudgy little hands together in an agony of suspense. " For 
'eaven's sake don't be the cruel girl an' him the despairin' 
lover. Hanswer 'im hand be happy." 

Not wishing to spoil my flirtation by being a " cruel girl," I 
prepared to reply, when my eager lover interrupted me at the 
first syllable. / 

" I know it, me darlin', me 'art told me so. Cum down to me 
arms, me own. Cum down." 

" Barbara," says I, " I'm afraid he's not an educated gentle- 
man. He says darlin' and 'art." 

" And what helse should he say but 'art, Miss Nettie ? " 
questioned the girl. " Sure ham I that's only excitement ; 'e's 
hedicated, Miss, that 'e his." Here Barbara struck an atti- 
tude. " Then, oh, cruel one, suppose he does say darlin', would 
you break 'is 'art, ruin 'is future, hand destroy 'is 'appiness for 
one letter. Ho, Miss Nettie, don't, I himplore you, don't." 

" Well, I won't then, Barbara. I'll speak to him." 

I leaned out the window and saw my troubadour standing 
expectantly near the side-gate. Before I could speak, I was as- 
tonished to see the gate slowly open, and a figure — a female 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 267 

figure, emerge. My troubadour sprang toward her and folded 
her in his embrace. 

" Ho, Miss," said Barbara, gasping, " hain't hit 'orrible — 
hain't hit for hall the world like a story. Ho, hain't hit glo- 
rious ? " 

" Hark ? " whispered I, " I want to hear." 

" Suckie, I knew ye'd come to me, darlin' — me darlin'," 
whereupon " suckie " lifted her face and disclosed to my as- 
tonished vision the ruddy face of Susan, the cook. 

" Lawk," cried Barbara, " hif that ain't Susan Cummins; 
he don't know nothin' ; han, Miss Nettie, the man's Mr. Scrip's 
coachman, what Mr. Croft said shouldn't come here, 'cause he 
gets so drunk. Hit's Tom Scroggins, Miss. Ho, hain't hit 
hawful ? " 

" Shut that window, Barbara, and go to your room. What 
do you mean by letting my room get so chilly. Bring your 
head in, this minute. Do you hear me?" Poor little Bar- 
bara went to her room after this deserved rebuke; and Tom 
Scroggins, with his Susan, wandered up and down the walk. I 
heard their steps beneath my window as Morpheus enslaved me. 
So ended my first romance. 

For the New York Mercury. February 2, 1867. 



FATE 

" There it is again ! " And there it was, sure enough, easy, 
graceful, flowing, and sensible — a marginal criticism upon the 
very first page of that quaint and tantalizing little volume, 
" Yeast," which, like a curious child, propounds questions too 
deep for the wisest of men to answer; and, like a will-o'-the- 
wisp, leads its followers into swamps, only to leave them in ut- 
ter darkness, groping their way out again. It is, after all, as 
its name indicates, but yeast, which may or may not "leaven 
up the whole lump." 

But I am not writing a criticism on the book. I was simply 
intending to say that Horace Lynn found such along its margin, 
penciled in an easy, graceful, flowing feminine hand, and that 
at sight of it he cried out suddenly, " There it is again ! " 



268 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

" There's what again ? " asked Charles, lifting his eyes from 
the laborious task of teasing the kitten. 

" Why, this indefatigable, graceful critic. She has preceded 
me in every book I have read the last six months, and left her 
pencil marks on them all." 

" Nothing very wonderful in that," said Charlie, stroking 
his beardless chin. " These women must always be scribbling 
their names over everything. Some ' blue ' is reading the li- 
brary through, and takes this method of letting people know." 

" No, that's the oddity. She hasn't left the first letter of her 
name on any one of them, and she never writes when she has 
nothing to say. She points out anachronisms, and gives her 
opinion clearly and concisely. The fact of the matter is, she's 
worth knowing, and I'm going to know her." 

" An old-maid ' blue ' you'll find her, or somebody's wife," 
said Charlie, seizing the cat, and vacating the apartment with 
one bound. Evidently he preferred other company. 

Once alone, Horace Lynn fell to dreaming of the fair hand- 
writing on the page before him, as he had often done of late, 
until the writer rose embodied — a sweet vision — perhaps the 
brighter for being such a far-off, unattainable dream. His ideal 
of loveliness had, of course, blue-black hair, dark eyes, cherry 
lips, and white teeth ; but for the writer of these marginal notes 
he decided nothing. He never thought of her as handsome or 
homely. She was to him the embodiment of a pure, sweet, 
womanly mind, which could reason in a straightforward, and 
truthful way, and express itself simply and concisely. 

" Of course," thought Horace, " it's very silly and all that, 
to make such a fuss over a woman's scribbling in a book of a 
public library; and it's out of taste for any one to write in 
these books; but I'd like to see the writer of them anyway; 
though, I dare say, as Charlie says, she'd be an old-maid blue or 
somebody's wife. Well, it would be a satisfaction to know 
for a certainty. She's a great reader, anyhow. 'Washing- 
ton's Life,' ' Galadays,' < Quits,' ' Yeast," Browning,' ' Aldrich,' 
and a dozen others I've seen that she has read. I'm booked 
to find out this girl; so here goes for an abode in a dusty old 
library. Dick'll be glad of a holiday, I dare say ; and I'll chase 
up those numbers in short order." 



EAKLY PKOSE WOKKS 269 

Always impulsive, Horace took his hat and walked to the 
library. It was open, and he entered its quiet precincts 
with that feeling of reverence we all feel upon entering a 'quiet, 
darkened room. He traversed the long hall where two slovenly- 
looking maids were perpetually mopping up the painted floor, 
which never looked any fresher, and from there into the sanc- 
tum sanctorum, where long rows of books stared blankly at 
him, and half a dozen men looked up curiously from their 
papers. 

Horace walked up to the desk, slapped the thin librarian on 
the shoulder, and ignoring the law of silence, or necessary con- 
versation in whispers, cried out : 

" How are you, Dick ? " 

" Hush, not so loud," whispered Dick, " I'm not feeling first 
rate." 

" Want a holiday ? " asked Horace, not a whit lower than be- 
fore. 

Dick's face brightened, then the light faded out suddenly. 

" I'd like it, but can't get off," adding " but you mustn't be 
so noisy." 

" Isn't there any place in this confounded old nutshell where 
a man can speak above his breath ? " was the impatient re- 
joinder. " If there is I'd like to go there." 

The librarian, after satisfying himself that no one needed 
his service at that moment, led the way into an inner room, fol- 
lowed by Horace and the curious, half-indignant glances of the 
readers whose labors he had sadly interrupted, and yet whose 
learned brains were the clearer, I dare say, for the very hear- 
ing of his fresh, hearty voice. 

When a man resolutely goes to work to make a bookworm of 
himself, he is very nearly insane or has a palpable weakness in 
some part of his head. He trades off his own thoughts, and 
feelings, and fancies, for those of other people's. They may be 
wiser, and better, and brighter, than his own ; but it is like ex- 
changing one's own children for those of other people. And who 
would rather have a prince of the blood than the very ordinary 
darling of one's own heart ? It is all very well and right to 
educate, beautify, and improve him as much as possible, but 
never, never to trade him off. Yet this man does so. The 



270 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

freshness, and youth, and beauty, go out from his heart like sun- 
shine from a shut-up rose. He becomes but an album scrawled 
over with the autographs and thoughts of other people, and he 
himself is gone forever buried like poor, foolish, false Tarpeia, 
under too great a weight of treasure. It was this style of man, 
the little withered man in the corner and that gray, shivering 
old gentleman hugging the cold stove, that Horace brushed 
past as he entered the next room. They drew deep breaths 
as people are apt to do when entering pure, fresh air. He was 
such a breezy, invigorating face and smile. Even the librarian 
felt it ; for he had no sooner shut the door in the faces of the 
" worms," than he greeted Horace anew with : 

" How are you, Horry ? " 

" I'm jolly," said Horace, " the fact of the matter is, I've 
been to Aunt Hannah's and she agrees with my constitution. 
Bread, butter, milk, etc. By-the-way, Dick, that cousin of mine, 
little Bess, is a trump, and no mistake." 

Dick blushed at that faintly. Horace wondered why. 

" I say, Dick, suppose you try it. Aunt Hannah said for 
you to come right out." 

This I am bound by native truthfulness to declare was an 
unmitigated fib on Horace's part ; but he consoled himself by 
the reflection that she probably would have sent such a message 
had she seen how pale Dick was looking. 

" I'd like it," replied Dick, slowly ; " but you see it's no use ; I 
can't leave here, Horry. Bessie isn't engaged or anything of 
that sort, is she ? " 

" My sakes ! man, you've twisted that out of shape now — 
my best one, too. What did you say ? Bess engaged ? I dare 
say she is, to half a dozen. She's something of a flirt, and 
queens it over her country beaux quite royally. Had a slave of 
me a week. But after all, Dick, she's a true girl ; and I dare 
say she is waiting for your great, solemn eyes to light up her 
heart." 

This Horace said out of pure kindness of heart, seeing faintly 
how the land lay. It had the effect of coloring Dick's ef- 
feminate face prettily, and he exclaimed, impatiently: 

" I wish I could go." 

" So you can, old boy; I'll take your place for a month ! " 



EAKLY PEOSE WOEKS 271 

"You!" 

" Yes, why not ? I've nothing special to do until after then ; 
so come, pack up, and clear out. Kiss pretty Bess for me, and 
get yourself well again." 

Dick went. 

How the old library altered! The pale, soft-stepping, soft- 
spoken shadow no more added to its gloomy ghostliness ; but in 
its place came a cheery, noisy vagabond, who never knew where 
anything was, and never could keep quiet. One or two of the 
book-worms, with undisguised contempt for his clatter, seized 
their quartos and indignantly stalked out of the apartment, 
while the little withered old man was heard to laugh outright, 
a deed that he was ashamed of hours afterwards, bending with 
more than usually severe face over Plato. But Horace never 
thought of amusing these old gentlemen. He was busy chas- 
ing numbers through the checkbook, and in a constant state of 
amazement at their mysterious disappearances and reappear- 
ances. ~No person seemed to have read the seven books of the 
series, until finally he could trace half a dozen to Mary Jane 
Smith ; but the seventh was wanting, so another track must be 
taken, only to result in an equal failure. Horace rode his 
hobby untiringly for two weeks — a weary ride even when the 
ride is a hobby, and, 

" First he goes up, then he goes down, 
And still horsey gets you no nearer to town." 

So with Horace. At the end of two weeks he was, in truth, 
" no nearer town." He had, it is true, an idea ; but, after all, 
only an idea taken from a pretty name which he had found very 
often on his books and decided the name was the name of his 
womanly critic, Aurora Armstrong. 

She had read over those books, but so had many others ; yet 
he clung to her, and waited until she should come. 

It was twilight in the dim old library. Gaunt shadows were 
beginning to creep stealthily out from the corners, and the busy 
readers were edging toward the windows and lifting their papers. 

Horace, tired and disappointed, bent wearily over his books, 
almost envying his pale cousin the holiday he had vouchsafed. 
Suddenly he lifted his head. A woman's voice had pronounced 
a name. 



272 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" Aurora ! " 

The heavy oaken doors swung noiselessly on their hinges, and 
Aurora stood in its frame. 

The shadows sank to the corners again, and the room bright- 
ened in her smile. Even the hookworms twisted their faces 
into a cheerful scowl at sight of her face. Tall, willowy, slen- 
der, with fair curling hair bound back from a beautiful brow, 
and clear blue eyes whose sweetness was beyond comparison, 
white-handed, rose-lipped, she dawned upon him in that dim 
old library at the twilight-hour. 

" She/' said Horace to his own heart yet in truthful earnest- 
ness, " She is my darling." 

Is there such a thing as love at first sight ? If not, why did 
that pretty creature stand there, faintly flushing beneath his 
gaze, until her mother, standing back, urged : 

" Go in, Aurora, and get your book." And when she did go 
in, swaying lightly, did she pause and hesitate before asking 
the very commonplace question : 

" Is ' Charles O'Malley ' in % » 

" 'No," said Horace, " it will be in this evening." 

" Charles O'Malley " was innocently lying under his very 
eyes as Horace uttered this very doubtful assertion. 

" I will send it around if you will leave your number." 

Send it around indeed. She knew very well who would 
carry that book around. 

" That will do, my dear/' said Aurora's mother. " The gen- 
tleman is very kind. Give him the number." 

Aurora obeyed, and the two ladies left the room together. 

How dark the old library seemed to Horace then! How it 
settled into darker and gloomier shadows ! How the vague twi- 
light resumed its sway now that day was gone ! 

You will think Horace silly. He was ; but it was a silliness 
which, like an attack of measles, must be gone through by every 
boy, and the earlier the better. Horace, standing at his desk in 
the reading-room and library, would have settled at once that 
long debated question regarding love at first si^ht. He would 
say : 

" There is such a love, for I have felt it. There is a cer- 
tain affinity, a drawing together that is beyond argument or 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 273 

reasoning, equally beyond doubt." And knowing absolutely 
nothing of Aurora Armstrong, be would have been willing then 
and there to claim her for his own. 

That evening, after the library was closed, Horace, armed 
with " Charles O'Malley," took his way leisurely to the home of 
Aurora. He wondered if he should see her, and thought with 
a sinking heart, what if she was away, or worse, did not care 
to be seen! He longed to know if she, at that moment's in- 
terview, had recognized her fate, as he had done, and reasoned on 
the subject quite as sagely as young men of a romantic tempera- 
ment, and in love, generally do. While he was yet thinking 
of her, he saw her pretty golden-curled head in the window over 
the way. How fair she was — lit up by the gleams of gaslight. 
Horace thought he had never seen so fair a creature, and his 
loving heart then and there bent to do her beauty homage. He 
crossed the street, lingeringly, unwilling to risk the presence 
of his charmer lest it should not prove so heart-cheering as the 
picture. He rang the bell, and heard her light step in the hall. 
He thought that he should know her step anywhere, foolish fel- 
low. It was only the tidy little maid, and Aurora was yet 
crushing her pretty curls against the window-panes. Horace 
followed the girl to the parlor, and Aurora smiled as though 
she was very glad to see him. Minutes, golden-winged, flut- 
tered away, and Horace rose to go. 

" Would he come again ? " asked Aurora. " She knew his 
cousin Dick very well indeed, and would like to know him 
better." 

So Horace found the critic whose marginal notes had de- 
lighted him. He went often, and was surprised to find Aurora 
more of a child than the woman he fancied had written those 
notes. He loved her, and that was enough for him ; " blue," or 
baby, she was still Aurora. 

Two weeks more and Dick returned, with a sturdy ringing 
step and a flush upon his pale cheek, bringing with him the 
pretty cousin Bess, who had been the cause of his blushing and 
stammering once. Dick wasn't just ready to marry, but he 
was rather doubtful of the expediency of leaving Bessie to 
wander at her own sweet will among her adoring country- 
beaux. He found she was sometimes inclined to snub him, and 



274 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

institute comparisons rather unfavorable to himself; and so, 
like the wise man that he was, he gathered his flower in the 
faint flush and freshness of early love, daring poverty to do its 
worst, while true hearts stood their ground, and busy hands 
were ever willing. 

He went back to the dim old library, and in lieu of rattling, 
noisy Horace, Bessie sometimes put her fresh, pretty face into 
the old apartment. But Horace — well, the hours that he had 
formerly devoted to the library, which, somehow had got to 
be a great bore to him after he had found Aurora, hung heavy 
on his hands, and therefore he was apt to devote them to the 
most pleasant occupation within reach, viz., holding skeins of 
silk and worsted for Aurora. 

It was not a money-making business, Horace confessed as 
much to himself quite often in the solitude of his chamber; 
nor was it a labor calculated to improve his mind, but — and 
this was his invariable conclusion — " it was deuced pleasant, 
and she was such a darling." 

" Do you know, my dear, what first made me love you ? " asked 
Horace, one evening, when u his dear " was beside him. 

Aurora shook her pretty head. 

" I'm sure I don't, Horry. It was fate, I think." 

" Not at all," replied he. " It was my own good common- 
sense, Miss Aurie. I found your criticisms in the books that 
you had read, and I made up my mind you were the girl for 
me, so I took Dick's place, and traced you out by the numbers. 
It was tedious work, but I conquered; I couldn't give up a 
girl who could write so sensibly very willingly, so I made a 
vow I'd marry you just from those notes." 

Aurora lifted her pretty face with a puzzled air. 

" Notes ? Criticisms ? Why, I'm sure I never wrote a 
criticism in my life! It's all I can do to write to mamma 
when she's out of town, and then I always forget half I meant 
to say. I don't understand you, dear old boy! What books 
do you mean ? " 

" Why ' Yeast,' ' Washington's Life,' i Browning,' ' Aldrich,' 
and the rest. You know them, Aurie." 

" Know them ? I should think so. Why Horry, dear, what 
a goose you are. And you vowed to marry the woman who 



EAELY PEOSE WOKKS 275 

read those books. Oh, you dear, foolish boy, how silly! how 
silly!" 

Here Aurora broke down completely in the sweetest, clearest, 
silvery laugh that ever rippled over coral lips ; and Horace, just 
because of its delightful infection, and not that he had the 
least understanding of the matter, joined her. 

" Horace, you've seen Mrs. Billins, haven't you ? " 

" The little sallow woman who teaches you music and French, 
etc. ? I've seen her. Not a great beauty either." 

" No, but the dearest woman. She has five children and a 
drunken husband, and supports them all by her teaching and 
her pen. She takes books from the library in my name, and 
I expect wrote the notes you were so pleased with. And now, 
Horry dear, that you know that I'm not clever, ain't you going 
to love me 'any more? I don't know one word of Latin, and 
wouldn't dare to criticize ' Mother Goose ' itself." 

Not love her any more? Horace couldn't help loving her. 
He kissed the pretty lips so temptingly uplifted, and whis- 
pered : 

" I am a convert to your creed, my darling. It was fate." 

Let me add, that because of this story, young ladies must 
not go to writing marginal criticisms, since nine-tenths of the 
librarians are foolishly unromantic, and practical, and would 
be more likely to exact fines for the defacing of volumes than to 
fall in love with the writer thereof. 

For the New York Mercury. February 9, 1867. 



TKIED 

I sprang from the uncomfortable old couch with a sigh of re- 
lief, stretched my toes in my gaiters, and shook out the wrinkles 
of my traveling-dress. It had rained for at least ten miles of 
our journey, and through the leaky roof the drops had pattered 
ceaselessly upon the heads and shoulders of its occupants. 
There were nine of us, a coachf ul and somewhat over ; a lean, 
consumptive man, with a cough and a wheeze, whose linen duster 
was almost saturated with rain; a fat, rosy-faced middle-aged 
man, whom one instinctively decided was a butcher, and his 



276 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

wife, also fat and rosy-faced, enveloped in any number of 
wrappings. Then there was a man of lean visage and sour 
face — some village pedagogue, mayhaps, who growled at the 
rain, at the crowd, and even at his little daughter squeezed un- 
comfortably between his knees; two young misses out to visit 
some Western aunt; a young gentleman of no particular at- 
tractions, and myself, completed the company. The gentleman 
sitting at my side, whom I have designated as having no par- 
ticular attractions, I found very useful. He was not very hand- 
some, though his clear, intelligent eyes and pleasant mouth 
gave him some claim to good looks. He had beautiful light- 
brown hair, curling slightly, and there his good looks ended. 
His face was scarred somewhat, and weather-worn; his dress 
was neither rich nor handsome, although most comfortable ; and 
he sat buried in a newspaper, and utterly regardless of the 
chilling drops which fell regularly upon his hat and coat. He 
never changed his position in the seat, nor seemed conscious of 
the unpleasant drenching to which he was being gradually sub- 
jected. He had the leakiest corner of that very leaky vehicle, 
but didn't seem conscious of the fact until the butcher's wife 
said, plaintively: 

" Deary me, sir ! Here we're a grumblin' and a grumblin', 
and after all you're gettin' much the worst of it an' don't say 
a word. Some o' you gentlemen ought to take that wet corner 
for a time. Hadn't you ? " 

To this suggestion there was no reply, only the village-school- 
master edged somewhat closer into his corner, and drew his lit- 
tle daughter after him. The gentleman who had excited her 
sympathy smiled, and replied, cheerily : 

" Oh, never mind me, madam. I don't mind a drop of rain 
more or less. I'm used to it." 

" Been a soljer, maybe ? " suggested the butcher. 

" Yes," was the reply. " For four years." 

" Seen some lively times, no doubt, sir ? " questioned the 
school-master to which the gentleman replied by giving a lively 
and amusing account of an adventure that he had met with near 
Vicksburg. 

Finding that he could amuse the company, the stranger 
good-naturedly laid aside his paper and went to work. He 



EAELY PEOSE WOKKS 277 

talked rapidly and well, changing his topics too often to admit 
of weariness in the listener, and seemed to have thoughts for 
every one of his fellow-passengers. My cloak fell from my 
shoulders and he replaced it, adding thereto the cape of his 
own as a further shield ; the child of the school-master fretting 
uncomfortably, he took on his knee, and even kept the con- 
sumptive gentleman in troches, thereby easing his cough. I 
became interested in my fellow-passenger. He had such tact, 
such versatility of talent, such genial, whole-hearted manliness ; 
and when the coach stopped at my friend's door, I was almost 
sorry to bid him farewell; but against that sorrow I put the 
freedom from the wet and dreary coach, the clear grate-fire that 
welcomed me in Mrs. Gary's cozy parlor, and dear little Mrs. 
Gary's own sweet self; I decided that I had the best of the 
bargain, and consequently drew a sigh of relief. The coach 
rattled on over the stony street; my fellow-passengers settled 
again in their seats ; I saw the school-master's daughter placed 
in mine, lately vacated, and then I went into the house. 

Ellen Chadwick and I had been dear old school friends. 
She was a pretty, blue-eyed little creature, born rather for 
loving, than leading. In her school days I had been her idol 
and her guide ; but now that she had married, I think it never 
occurred to her to doubt the infallibility of her husband, Harry 
Gary. Still her warm heart clung fondly to old friends; and 
when she heard of my failing health, she urged my visiting 
her. I consented, and upon this rainy August day first 
entered Nellie's home. 

" I wonder," said Nellie, the next day, as we sat before 
the grate, for it was still raining and chill, " I wonder who'll be 
in to-night. I told Henry Fish and Chad Burlingame to come 
in; but Chad is out of town, and I'm afraid he hasn't re- 
turned." 

" Who is Chad Burlingame ? " I asked, taking somehow an 
interest in the name. 

Nellie laughed, hesitated a little, and covered her hesitation 
by kissing her baby a score or more times, then said : 

" Chad ! Oh, he's one of my favorites ; a kind of second- 
cousin, you know ; but you'll not like him, my dear, I dare say. 
Henry Eish will be infinitely more to your taste. He's a nice 



278 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

fellow — handsome, well-off, pleasant and agreeable ; but Hub- 
bie " (her pet contraction of husband) " says that Chad is 
worth ten of him. You can judge for yourself. Vic, dear 
don't be shocked. You're so proud, you know, but I must 
tell you that Chad is a blacksmith. He's just as much of a 
gentleman, my dear, and we think everything of him; and he 
can't help having a trade, now can he, dear ? " 

" I'm sure I don't know what he can help, Nell, and I'm 
equally sure I don't care," I returned, annoyed that my pre- 
dilection for a name had led to the choice of a blacksmith, and 
the ignoring of a gentleman. 

" Oh dear," sighed Nell, dolefully, putting her pretty face on 
her baby's head. " I suppose you'll hate him now, and I've 
done it. Vic, you're very proud. Harry says that's the worst 
trait about you. Don't be angry, dear, but in republican 
America, a gentleman is a gentleman wherever you find him, 
and you oughn't to curl your lip that way." 

Nell was right. I, in theory, never curled my lip at honest 
toil; in practice, always. I upheld and honored the man 
whose hands were honestly browned with toil, as a hero ; but so 
far in life I had kept my softer palms from contact with these. 
It never occurred to me that I, Victoria Granger, was prac- 
ticing the very fault that I decried. It never occurred to me 
that if these workingmen were gentlemen, they should be 
treated as such. After all, I was but a theorist. How I learned 
" to practice what I preached," you shall hear. 

That evening, while baby slept in her crib, and mamma 
rocked her, softly singing, half to herself, half to the little one, 
the gentleman came in, Harry Fish answering Nellie's descrip- 
tion perfectly, slightly inane, slightly foppish, I thought, as 
he whipped his polished boot with his slender gold headed cane, 
but altogether gentlemanly. 

Before I had well studied this man, although he was not 
much of a study, Mr. Burlingame came in. At the introduc- 
tion I lifted my eyes so slightly that I did not see his face. 

" I believe that I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss 
Granger under less agreeable circumstances," said Mr. Bur- 
lingame. 

Then I looked up. Clear, intelligent eyes, pleasant mouth, 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 279 

and light curling hair of a verity. I saw my genial stage-coach- 
friend and companion, whose cape had kept my shoulders 
warm. I gave him my hand, letting it linger in his firm, hard 
palm a second with a feeling that it was in good keeping, and 
then we sat down to evening gossip. Here, as in the stage- 
coach Chadwick Burlingame showed infinite tact in the selec- 
tion of his subjects. He was equally at home criticising Nell's 
new bonnet and describing the excellencies of Fish's new span. 
He even showed his aptitude for baby-tending by winning Nell's 
little girl to his arms the moment she opened her eyes. From 
the first I liked Chadwick Burlingame. 

As days passed I saw very much of both these gentlemen. 
There were not very many young folks in the village, and as a 
matter of course, we met very often. 

I rode with Henry Fish, praised his team, and learned to 
drive to my heart's content. I walked with Chad Burlingame, 
read his books and listened to his conversation with great plea- 
sure. He was one of the few people of whom I never tired. 
He, with his consummate tact, left his friends at perfect lib- 
erty, chiming in their moods and leading them, rather than 
himself, to talk. We became good friends. I used to stand 
at my windows and watch the red light in the blacksmith-shop 
as it shone like a lurid star from surrounding darkness. I 
used to wonder if he never had a feeling of hatred for .that shop 
— for the trade — for his toil-hardened hands and his laborious 
life. 

One evening — it was a warm, clear October evening, as I 
stood at my window, the impulse seized me to go over and see 
him work. It was early yet, not six o'clock, and yet not very 
light. I threw on my hat and walked briskly across the street, 
down to the shop door. It stood open. Within, the men were 
very busy. The scene was like a magic picture, the great fires 
burning on either side of the shop shot their white flames roar- 
ing and cracking up the chimney, while men worked the huge 
bellows. On the anvil lay the red-hot iron, while a master- 
hand, with sharp, clear, ringing blows, molded it. In the 
background, lit fantastically by the fires, I could see wheels and 
hoops and all sorts of iron implements. As I stood in the 
door silently looking at the scene, Chad came from one of the 
fires. 



r 280 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

" Miss Granger, can it be possible ? " 

" Just possible/' I replied ; " I want to see the inside of your 
shop ; may I come in ? " 

" Certainly — take care, that iron is at white-heat — don't lay 
your hand on that tire ; it is hot yet. I begin to think that I had 
better refuse admittance if you are so careless." 

But he did not. Instead, he led me around, and explained 
to me all the minutiae, and finally seated me in a great rustic 
chair, to see the men work. 

" What a pleasant sight ! " I said. " I like to sit here." 

" Yes," he replied, half dreamily, " there is a romance even 
about blacksmithing. To me there is poetry in shoeing a 
horse. Look at that one there; see how patient, how quietly 
that animal stands there. See how the light falls on his glossy 
coat; note his graceful bearing and that shadowy background. 
Is it not fine ? " 

Standing before me, one hand resting on the arm of my 
chair, Chad Burlingame spoke of himself and of me. " I knew 
you," he said softly, too softly for mere friendship ; " I knew 
you well, Miss Granger, even in that stage-coach." 

" Not so," I replied, with a half smile, " I am afraid you do 
not know me now." 

'" Not know you now ? Have I studied this form for two 
months unavailingly ? " 

There was that in his voice which made me lift my eyes. 
They met his own clearly and openly. I knew then what I have 
never doubted since — that Chad Burlingame loved me. Yet 
was no such word spoken, no caress given. I rose up, drew my 
shawl closer about me, and said I must go home. 

" It was not prudent of you to come alone," he said ; " but I 
will see you safely back." 

I took his offered arm, looking back as I left the shop with a 
great pain in my heart. That I loved this man I knew; that 
he was my equal, I never doubted ; but — and my fierce English 
blood rose at that — " could I ally myself with a mechanic % " 
and my pride answered, " Never ! " So in such a mood, I 
heard and answered Chad Burlingame's question that night. 

" Is this final ? " he asked, standing at the gate. 

« It is final," I replied. 

" Then, indeed, I never knew you." 



EARLY PEOSE WOKKS 281 

Those bitter words. All night long they rang in my ears; 
ah, and for many a night before they bore fruit. Eor one 
whole week I saw nothing of Chad Burlingame; nothing, I 
mean, but sometimes his tall form at the shop door, and oc- 
casionally I met him on the street. At such times he touched 
his hat and passed, searching my face always with those keen 
eyes. 

" It seems to me, Vic, that Fish has cut Burlingame out," 
said Nellie one evening, as Fish left the door. " Well, it's a 
better match, I think, though Harry says Chad would suit you 
better." 

" I couldn't marry a common blacksmith, Nell," I replied. 

" Well," said Nell, " that's your pride. I told Harry that 
you wouldn't; but he said there was a heroic element in you, 
or something of that kind, that would overcome pride. Chad 
is a gentleman, my dear, and was as rich as you are — far richer 
— until two years ago, when his father died. When they came 
to settle up the estate, they found a great deal had been lost in 
speculating. What was left after settling, proved just sufficient 
for the support of his mother and sisters ; so Chad settled it all 
on them, and was penniless. His mother is an invalid, and she 
cannot bear to have her son away from her. He knows that 
she cannot live long, and will not leave her. In a village like 
this, there was nothing that he could do but what he did. Mr. 
Crane offered him the overseeing of his shop and Chad accepted. 
There's the whole story, my dear; and, for my part, I like 
Chad all the better for it. He's too good for you, by half, 
you naughty pride." 

So saying, Nell kissed me more tenderly than her words 
would imply that she felt, tossed her baby to her shoulder, and 
went off singing. 

I arose and went to the window. From the shop I could see 

the lurid light, although I knew that the men were gone. By 

the door I saw a tall form that I knew even by that uncertain 

light. This, then, was the man that I had deigned to scorn. 

This, then, was the man who had learned to love me. 

" If I had a lover 

Who was noble and free 
I would he were nobler 
Than to love me," 



282 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

I thought. Below me, the deserted street, and that one bright 
light; above me, the clear moon and silent stars; within, the 
crying of a loving heart that had been untrue to itself. 

Always impulsive, I now donned hat and cloak for the pleas- 
ure of an evening walk. It was ten o'clock, and the streets were 
almost quiet ; but I wanted to see the light nearer ; I wanted to 
see Chad Burlingame, and tell him how I honored him for his 
constancy to his mother. Swiftly I threaded the streets. The 
door stood open. I entered, scarcely knowing what I did. 

He was standing by the huge fireplace with one hand on the 
bellows. His face looked paler than its wont; but it might be 
the flame. 

" Mr. Burlingame ! " 

He started, turned, and came toward me. In his face I could 
read but surprise at seeing me. 

" Miss Granger ! " 

His manner asked " What is the matter ? " 

" I have heard your story to-night," I said, simply, " and I 
want to tell you how much I honor you." 

He took my hand and searched my face. 

" Have you anything else you want to tell me ? " he asked, 
slowly, as though he weighed every word. " Do not trifle with 
me now, I beg of you. Miss Granger, tell me truly, is this 
all your lips will utter ? " 

" No ; I would beg pardon for my scorn the other night. You 
must think that I honor you instead." 

"Is that all?" 

Was it all? I do not know. Some way, the ruddy light 
flamed up in my face, and Chad Burlingame's eyes were full 
of happy tears ; some way I forgot the old blacksmith-shop, the 
toil-hardened hands, and my pride ; some way, when he called 
me his darling, I could not help feeling glad. And so it all 
was. 

The next day I received the following note : 

" My Darling : — You must not be angry ; but we have been 
playing a little drama. Now, I will tell you all about it. Nel- 
lie's story was true enough, so far as it went. The trouble was, 
it didn't go far enough. Last year, my grandfather left his 



EARLY PKOSE WOEKS 283 

estate to me. I never did desire much wealth; but, after it 
came, I found it very pleasant. I had heard of you so fre- 
quently from Nellie, that I felt quite an interest in you. Speak- 
ing one evening of your pride, Nellie said : i But there's no 
chance for you, Chad. She hates mechanics.' Thereupon, we 
built our little farce. I took my shop into my own hands, and 
— you know the rest. My darling, did I not know you 
truly? "Chad." 

I read the note. I did not feel half as happy as I was an- 
noyed that I was tricked. Then the " heroic element " which 
Harry Gary had discovered was fully aroused. I was rather 
sorry not to be a martyr for Chad's sake; but, after all, I 
think I bore the reverse with a becoming spirit since I let 
Harry laugh at me, and Nell kiss me to her heart's content, since 
I even did not scold Chad when he sent me a set of charms for 
my chatelaine, in which a golden anvil, hammer, and bellows 
figured largely. 

For the New York Mercury. February 23, 1867. 



DOWN THE DEE 

" Girls, girls," shouted Bess Neil, rushing into the village 
schoolroom at their '' nooning " ; " what news I have heard 
you'll never guess. I think it's the best thing." 

" What is it, Bess ? " " Tell us, do ! " " Don't be mean, 
Bess ! " " Out with the news ! " etc., was echoed and re-echoed 
from every part of the room, where on tables, and benches, and 
desks, the school girls were enjoying their lunches. Only one, 
a dark, quiet girl, sitting at her own desk, with her head leaning 
on her hand, did not evince the least curiosity. 

" Come, Bess," pleaded Nell Gwyn, affectionately twining 
her arms about the tantalizing courier ; " come, tell us." 

" Of course, I'll tell you, but I'd like to get my breath first. 
Mr. Lennox is getting up a party to go boating down the Dee 
in a few weeks. He came to see Will about it, and I heard 
of it. There are to be twenty couples and I'm going with 
Dick Wilson. Isn't it glorious ? " 



284 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

The news was hailed with universal delight, and young cou- 
ples began speculating upon their beaux, possible and probable, 
until the arrival of Mr. Lennox himself — who had charge of 
the village school that summer — when the subject was dropped. 

Through all the noise and applause, the dark-eyed girl in 
the corner never lifted her head, though a close observer might 
have noticed that she never turned a page, and that one or two 
tears slipped silently down her face. She failed, too, in her 
lessons the next hour; and Mr. Lennox when he reprimanded 
her, thought her face sullen, and took a sudden dislike to the 
girl. It never occurred to him that she might be unhappy. 

This girl, Anise Gray, tall, slender, dark of eye and hair, 
might have been pretty but for the heavy, sad look that was ha- 
bitual to her face. Orphaned from childhood, sensitive beyond 
most children, the dependant upon a fashionable, selfish aunt, 
Anise (comfortably clad, and fed though she was) bore daily 
and hourly trials before which many a stout heart would bow, 
and long — as weak little Anise did, all summer long — to be 
at rest under the clover. 

Anise never had a childhood. She made no mud-pies, climbed 
no fences, knew no pretty plays, made no clover-wreaths. She 
had a doll dressed in pink satin, wonderfully beautiful to 
childish Anise, which she held daintily on company days, won- 
dering if God made its eyes so black, and its curls so soft; but 
she had no romping, happy, merry infancy. Excluded from 
the parlor by her aunt, and from the nursery by her exacting, 
tyrannical cousins she grew up alone. A dark, silent, unloving, 
unlovable child, she walked with a certain, stately grace and 
dignity from infancy to girlhood. She attended school, read 
books, and dreamed dreams. That was her life. 

" A sullen, disagreeable creature/' said her cousin, Sybil 
Ward, and I'm afraid she spoke only the popular impression, 
after all. 

" That girl's got all her heart can wish," said indignant Nancy 
Green ; " and here she's just as sullen and ungrateful as can 
be. I'd pack her off, bag and baggage." 

The day after the announcement of the expected boat-ride, 
Percy Lennox, strolling toward the schoolhouse, came suddenly 
upon Anise Gray. She was standing in the lane, pressing open 



EARLY PEOSE WOEKS 285 

the waxen leaves of a water-lily and peering down into its 
fragrant heart with a beautiful smile transfiguring her face. 
He paused involuntarily. Was this the face he had thought 
uninteresting, and had scarcely cared to notice? Now he 
took its beauty to his heart. He passed her silently; but the 
graceful, slender form, the waving brown hair, the clear, oval 
face, the long, half-drooping lashes, and sweet half-parted lips, 
and above all^ that childish happy smile upon a face too liable 
to sadness, haunted him. 

" Evangeline,'' he said to himself. " Sunshine of St. Eu- 
lalie." 

With an irresistible desire to see the face again, he turned 
back. She had been unaware of his passing. He paused now 
and bent his kindly blue eyes upon her rapt face. 

" Are you wondering," asked he, " how those lily-caves are' 
peopled ? " 

She started at the sound of his voice, raised her head sud- 
denly, almost guiltily, but he was glad to see the smile did not 
leave her eyes as they met his. 

" Have you never dreamed, Anise, that flowers may be a re- 
gion of beautiful worlds, inhabited by fairy-like people? I 
wonder if our human eyes will ever be strong enough to see 
them as they are ? " 

Anise smiled that same rare smile with which she had looked 
at the lily. 

" Perhaps," she said, half-shyly ; " our world is like a lily in 
the hands of God. I used to think that the stars were his flow- 
ers." 

" Perhaps so, Anise. We shall know one day. You are go- 
ing home. I will see you safely within the gate." 

Turning his step, Percy Lennox and Anise walked slowly 
down the lane, under the heavy maples, and so to the little gate 
which led up to the walk at Miss Ward's. At the gate, Percy 
took the lily from her hand. 

" I will study out its secrets, visit its hidden caves, and let 
you know," he said, lightly. " Good-night, Evangeline." 

Anise walked swiftly up the path, her heart fluttering 
strangely and happily. Why had he taken the lily ? Why had 
he called her Evangeline? Had her teacher, her example, 



286 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

found at last something to like in her? Foolish child! She 
had been so frowned upon that she had learned to think there 
was nothing worthy about her — had learned to frown upon 
herself more sternly than them all. 

From that day, Percy Lennox studied Anise Gray as he 
might a new and strange book. His face was always in sun- 
shine for her. 'No reprimand, no coldness; and the sensitive 
plant expanded beneath the genial influence. School had been 
indifferent to Anise, now it was pleasure ; and Percy read anew 
in her dark face the sweet poem of Evangeline. 

" Girls," cried Bess, who had always found out everything 
before anybody else, as she rushed into the schoolroom two 
weeks later; "we'll go on Thursday. The boys will invite 
the girls to-day. I'm all right. Won't we be happy ? " 

" I'm so glad," said Anise, lifting her glowing face from her 
book. 

" What in the world are you glad for ? " asked Sybil, with a 
covert sneer. " Who'll take you, I wonder ? Lame Johnny 
Dickerson, or blind old Tom? Now, Mr. Lennox has almost 
engaged me, and we can't be troubled with you, I can tell you." 

At the cruel words Anise shrank back ; but a kind, firm hand 
was laid upon her shoulder, and Mr. Lennox's voice said: 

" Anise, I want you a moment." 

She turned and followed him, her face in shadow. At the 
desk he paused. 

" Will you go on the boat-ride with us ? " he asked. 

" Oh, Mr. Lennox," the girl's voice rang out full of pain; 
" you heard them — I cannot." 

" I heard them, Anise ; but had sent the invitation this morn- 
ing, so that need not distress you. You will find the note await- 
ing you at home." 

" You will go, won't you ? " 

"But Sybil?" 

" She will be provided with an escort, you may be sure. 
Your answer, Evangeline ? " 

"I should like to go if—" 

" If what ? " smilingly. 

" If you are sure you want me." 

" I am very sure." And so it was decided. Thursday morn- 



EAKLY PKOSE WOKKS 287 

ing dawned clear and bright. As Anise parted her curtains and 
let a flood of sunshine in, she clasped her hands for joy. Such 
a day as she would have. The sweet hours in the woods, the 
row, and the dancing. This latter, Anise did not care for; not 
she thought, out in the sacred silence of the woods ; but she 
would wander off from that. She would hear the birds sing 
and the insects hum all day — she would. 

While she was dreaming, a neat little fellow in naval uni- 
form called and took Sybil ; before she could resume her dreams, 
Mr. Lennox himself was waiting for her. She opened the door 
half -shyly ; but he, not at all shy, came in, smiled upon her, and 
bade her to be ready in a moment. 

Down the Dee. Was there ever so silver-bright a stream; 
such velvet, mossy banks; such graceful drooping alders and 
willows ? Was there ever so sweet a day, so blue a sky, or in all 
the bright world, so light a heart as Anise's. 

She thought not ; and Percy Lennox, noting the flushed face 
and sparkling eyes, saw neither sky nor stream, bank nor wil- 
lows, for the sunshine and the beauty he noted there. Down 
the Dee for two hours, until the sunshine was very warm, and 
the shade along the bank invited them. Then they moored their 
little barks, and the happy party scattered among the trees. 
First a lunch, and then the dancing. Anise shyly took herself 
to the woodland. The silent happy influence, and the singing 
birds and flowers lured her onward, and she walked on until 
she lost sight and sound of the merry throng. Accustomed 
to loneliness, after the happiness of the row, it was most grate- 
ful to her ; but as the shadows began to lengthen, she turned to 
retrace her steps. Turned, but alas! she had gone too far. 
On all sides the green walk inclosed her. 

Beyond their cruel gates she could not go. Almost hopelessly 
the poor child wandered about until darkness came on. Then 
she was suddenly stricken with the terror and fear of darkness. 
She cried aloud, and started at the hollow echo of her own voice. 
She ran until she was weary, and then retraced her steps. 
Every leaf, softly dropping, frightened her. The flutter of a 
bird's wing, the cry of an insect, or the bending of the grasses, 
set her timid heart pulsating. She grew cold and tired, and 
finally knelt softly upon the leaves and prayed. That prayer 



288 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

was to Anise friend and guard. She lay down quietly, and, 
with her hands still folded upon her hreast, fell asleep. 

" Blow the horn, Benedict," said Mr. Lennox, as the sun 
began to drop behind the hill. 

" That will bring the folks together, and Miss Gray among 
them, I hope. I'm afraid she's wandered off, for I have not 
been able to find her since noon." 

Benedict took the horn and sent a blast through the woods. 
Another, and another; and soon all the gay party were gath- 
ered together upon the shore. All but Anise. Where was she ? 
None had seen her. 

" I dare say she's gone home," said Sybil, lightly. " She's so 
odd. Let's follow her example." 

Lennox looked sternly at the girl; then took the horn, and 
blew it sharply, until echo after echo replied. Only echo, not 
Anise. 

" We will put the ladies in two of the skiffs," said Lennox, 
under his breath, " and eight of you gentlemen can take charge 
of them. The rest will stay and search the woods." 

Rapidly and silently the boats were filled, manned, and 
started, then Percy separated the remaining gentlemen into 
couples, and, with torches made from pine-knots, they began 
to scour the woods. Though frightened birds and startled squir- 
rels fled from the sound of the horn and shouting and the blaze 
of the light, Anise never replied. Heavy-hearted, and weary 
of foot, the searchers pursued their search. Percy Lennox and 
Benedict had started together, but had separated to take two 
different paths. Silently, hopelessly almost, Percy held his 
torch aloft, and sought for the lost girl. Suddenly the light 
shone upon a fair face, upon two clasped hands, and a tear 
lying on a pale cheek. With an involuntary reverence, Percy 
stooped, knelt, and laid his hand upon hers. 

" Evangeline, my sweet Evangeline ! " Anise opened her 
eyes, and smiled, still half asleep. Then as she began to com- 
prehend surroundings beyond the face which bent above her, she 
rose quickly. 

" Where am I ? Oh, I remember, I am so happy to be found. 
The silence and the darkness frightened me." 

" And have I found you, sweet Evangeline — and having 



EARLY PEOSE WORKS 289 

found you, may I keep you ? " How that question would have 
been answered I cannot say ; for just then the blast of the horn, 
the shouting, and the footsteps of the searchers smote their ears, 
and Percy had the presence of mind to call aloud and soon the 
happy word " Found! Found! " was ringing joyfully through 
the woods. 

Such a happy, happy party was that which embarked at mid- 
night on the rippling Dee. There was on Percy's face a light 
which did not come from the moonlight — there was in Anise's 
heart a " peace that passeth understanding " as she sat, hand in 
Percy's, and listened to the quick, steady stroke of the oars in 
the river. 

" I think," he said, bending to her, " that I found to-day 
what I had not lost — and yet was lost. Poor little child ! 
how could you sleep so peacefully in the dark woods ? " 

" I thought I would be cared for," she replied, simply ; " and 
my heart had been so happy all day, that before I knew it, I was 
asleep." 

" My sweet Evangeline ! " 

" At least it was mysterious," said Sybil Ward, the follow- 
ing day, as the school girls were talking over the picnic, " her 
getting off by herself, and making such a fuss. It was ridicu- 
lous, to say the least of it." But Anise smiled tenderly to her- 
self, and the cruel words passed unheeded ; for in her heart of 
hearts one loving name shut out all harsher ones. She was to 
one " Evangeline " ; and she remembered with a happy tremor 
that picnic " down the Dee." 

For the New York Mercury. March 9, 1867. 



ONLY WAIT, SUSIE ! 

" Only wait, Susie ! I'll come back soon," cried the boy to his 
little playmate, as he started on a brisk run, flying his kite. 
And the child replied to him, raising her sweet voice that it 
might reach him as he ran: 

" I'll wait, Charley, but don't stay too long." 

The gentleman, passing by, started suddenly at the words, and 



290 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

yet he was not one to attach undue importance to children's 
nonsense. 

Mr. Charles Millard, at thirty, was an old soldier of the 
world, and had long ago had all the romance worked out of him, 
or thought he had. He stopped now, looked at the boy as he ran 
gayly and happily down the street, at the girl standing patiently 
waiting for him, yet following him with a triumphant, happy 
smile — the kite was so high — looked at them, turned and 
sighed. 

" Our very words," he muttered, as he walked on. " Our 
very words ! " 

They haunted him, He turned to look at the speakers. The 
boy was already out of sight ; but the girl, true to her promise 
and hope, stood where he had left her, shading her eyes from 
the slant rays of the setting sun with one little hand — stood 
patiently, hopefully watching and waiting. 

" Poor child ! " said Millard, under his breath. " Poor, 
pretty, patient child ! " 

That evening, nothing satisfied Millard. He who was so 
easily satisfied, that he was the delight of his landlady's heart. 
He had been hungry, but he ate nothing; he had prepared the 
daily and weekly papers for perusal, yet he had read none of 
them, but lounging back in his easy-chair, gazing out in the 
star-lit summer night, he dreamed — and these were the dreams 
he dreamed. 

In the shadow and fragrance of the locust-tree he saw an 
old farmhouse. How well he remembered it! The dear old 
homely house, the spring at the foot of the hill, the little path 
leading thereto, and that other little path, worn only by child- 
ish feet, running like a silver thread over the hills, through 
the valley where the wild plums blushed and fell, over another 
hill across the little brook (where he had laid three flat stones 
that she might not wet her feet), and so to Susie's house. 

Scene after scene of his childhood came up now and then, 
and the dreamer sighed. He saw himself, a tall, slender boy, 
standing beneath those same old plum trees, and Susie was by 
his side; Susie, no longer a child, but a fair young girl, with 
large blue eyes, full of loving kindness, and a crimson little 
mouth, all aquiver with emotion. He saw again the soft brown 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 291 

curling tresses, the dear clasping hands, and heard again her low 
tones, so low that the rippling of the brook almost drowned them. 

" Only wait, Susie ! I'll come back soon ! " he said, putting 
her hair from her brow tenderly; and she had made answer, 
smiling hopefully through her tears: 

" I'll wait, Charley, but don't stay too long ! " 

And that was ten years since. Ten years! and she had 
asked him to stay not too long. Ten years, and he had said 
" I'll come back soon ! " 

Was Susie waiting? 

" No, no," cried Charley, " not that, not that ! Oh, she must 
have forgotten ! " 

But the saintly face, rising softly in his memory, said : " It's 
not the face of one who forgets." Father, mother, sisters, and 
brothers, all rose to condemn him. 

" Oh, I wonder," he thought, " if mother is so delicate as she 
was? The hair must be gray now; and father, does he stoop 
any more ? His face cannot be so clear by this time. I won- 
der if Kate has lost her pride by this time ? What a glorious 
woman Kate will make! She was such a regal little thing! 
Will make ? She must be a woman now ! That was ten years 
ago. George and Henry are men now, and little Clarence is 
at least fifteen. And Susie ! Oh, Susie ! Susie ! are you wait- 
ing for me yet, my darling ? 

Silently the tears welled up to his eyes, and fell unchecked ; 
for an angel had stirred the waters of his soul, and he was 
healed. 

" I will go to see them," he said, softly. " I will ask them 
to forgive me — will tell them that the cares of this world 
choked the good seed ; I will go to them and find rest ; but Susie 
may be married by this time. Oh, my darling, you are de- 
servedly lost ! " 

The strong man wept ; but as he wept, the picture of the lit- 
tle child standing on the curbing rose to comfort him. 

" This must be the hand of God," said he. " They need 
me at home. Susie may be waiting for me, as the little Susie 
I saw to-night was waiting. I have been flying my kite these 
many years. Only wait, Susie, and I'll come back ! " 

Then he thought upon the injustice which had driven him 



292 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

from home, how patient he had tried to be, how he had tried 
to like a farmer's life, and how his father had refused to let 
him go. At twenty-one he went, and only Susie knew that he 
was going; only Susie bade him not stay long. He had taken 
the horses to water, and little Clarence with him. He had 
watched them drink from the moss-covered trough, and put his 
arms about their necks like a child. Then he kissed little Clar- 
ence, and folded him in his arms, until the pretty child curved 
his lips in pain; kissed him for father, mother, and the chil- 
dren; and then he tied a little note in among his curls for his 
mother, and set the child upon the back of gentle old Bess. 
She led the way home ; and Charley, through his tears, watched 
father and mother at the window smiling at the royal little 
rider; saw Kate, with her bright hair flying, run out to him, 
and George and Henry smiling from the doorway; saw them 
all so happy and so loving, and then turned with a full heart 
from father, mother, and home. That night there was sorrow 
in the old home. Little Clarence crying for a lost curl, and a 
mother for a lost son. Charley was a dear boy at home, a 
tender, genial, loving, playful boy; but once having turned his 
back upon it, it was not his nature to regret or turn back. He 
shut from even his own thoughts all memory of home, and went 
boldly out to work ; and as he worked, the dear old home-scenes 
grew fainter, and he turned to the world for the joy that he 
had been wont to find in the home-circle. 

He wrote one letter home after he left, and it had been re- 
turned unopened, and re-directed in his father's firm, stiff hand. 
He wrote to Susie, but in reply came a tremulous note from 
her, blotted with tears, but saying that her father would not 
have her correspond with a boy who had disobeyed his parents, 
and ending with : " But I may love you all the same, Charley ; 
and you will soon come back a great and noble man. How very 
happy we shall be then ! Farewell, dear ; I shall pray for you 
nightly. Don't stay long." 

And so the last link which bound him to his home was severed. 
What wonder if the boy's heart grew cold and bitter! What 
wonder if the cares of this world sprang up and choked the 
good seed. Only choked it, for a mother's tears and prayers 
must bring forth fruit. He prospered, and riches came to him. 



EAELY PEOSE WORKS 293 

From him their wings seemed clipped. His hand was open to 
the poor. His heart only seemed closed. 

Many years ago, he put Susie's one letter and the shining 
curl which he had severed from Clarence's baby head at the 
moss-grown trough, away together, and as time passed he re- 
curred to them less often — remembered them more as a sweet 
vision than as a reality — until upon this evening, when the 
little strange children brought up to his memory the buried past, 
reproved him for his long delay, and urged his return to his 
father. 

Sunset in the country. Above the whispering trees, the 
clouds of royal splendor are lavishly piled, and a clear, summer 
evening is reluctantly approaching — softening and melting 
the brighter tints of the dying day. Without, the soft, sweet 
hum of insect-life, the sleepy chirping of birds, the musical 
tinkle of bells as straying cattle turn homewards, the good- 
night crowing of the barn-yard fowls, and the thousand happy 
notes of the gay, hoarse katy-dids and grasshoppers ; within, the 
low whispered tones and soft steps, the silence and solemnity 
that tell of the presence of death. 

A tender mother lies upon her pillows, and watches the sunset 
as it flushes the Western sky. An old man, with light, thin hair, 
and lines of care upon his face, holds one thin hand in both 
his, caressing it gently from time to time. A pale, sweet-faced 
woman, with an inexplicable sadness upon her face, moves 
softly about. One son bends tenderly over his mother, one only 
son, of all her children, who were wont to play about her feet, 
and share equally her dear caresses — this one only is now near 
her to receive her last farewell. 

" Run to the gate, Susie," she says, faintly, to the sweet- 
faced girl. " You may see him coming." 

The girl obeyed ; but made answer, soothingly : 

" Not yet, mother; he'll be here after awhile." 

" I know it," said the mother. " He'll never let his mother 
die without coming. He was always a loving, tender boy. 
There, Susie, I heard his step upon the porch." 

" No, mother, it was but the branch of the tree against the 
house." 

" Perhaps," said she wearily, " he will be here soon, for I am 



294 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

going fast. Lemuel, father, you must be kind to him for my 
sake. If he doesn't get here until I am dead, remember to love 
him. He was our first-born, and we were very proud of him. 
You know, father, we might have been more gentle to the lad." 

The old man groaned aloud. 

" Henry, my dear son ! " and the mother's voice cadenced 
the words tenderly. " You have been my joy and pride all 
your life. Be good to Susie and your old father. There, I 
heard Charley's step upon the gravel. Just in time — just in 
time. Henry, open the door for our lost one, who has come 
back." 

Have the dying quickened senses? As they near death, 
when the veil of the mortal is rent in twain, are not their per- 
ceptions brighter and keener than of old ? I think so. 

ISTo ear save the waiting mother's heard that step; and yet, 
when Henry opened the door, a man, tall and bearded, came in. 
He walked directly to his mother's bedside, and kneeling, cast 
his arms about her. 

" My mother ! Oh, my mother ! forgive your son ! " 

" My son ! my son ! Oh, my darling son ! " 

Silently, Susie stole from the room. Her heart was full. He 
had come. He had remembered them at last, and now she had 
no impatience for the greeting. That, she felt, was his dying 
mother's. 

" How brave you are grown, and how handsome, my Char- 
ley ! " said his mother, holding him from her. " Father, have 
you no word to welcome your son ? " 

" Father ! " and Charley's voice trembled. " Will you for- 
give me ? " 

" Forgive you ! Oh, my boy, my boy, forgive your old fa- 
ther ! As we draw nearer to death, we see things clearer, my 
son. I have mourned my harshness since — since — " And 
the old man choked, " since we laid our pretty Kate away." 

Brother Henry and Charley threw their arms about his neck, 
and kissed him in the old boyish way. 

" You, and George, and little Clarence, and I, will have 
the old times again. Where are they? And what did father 
say of little Kate ? Come here, Charley ! " 

Fainter and fainter grew the mother's voice. 



EAELY PROSE WOKKS 295 

" Come here, and I will tell you. Nerve your heart, my son ! 
George, and little Clarence, and Kate will all meet me in 
Heaven. It was not many months after you left that Clarence 
fell sick ; and oh, Charley, the curl you took that summer-evening 
is all that is left of our pretty baby. Then Kate, our one ewe 
lamb, went next — three years ago. She left her love for you, 
and some gifts. George fell in the Battle of the Wilderness, 
ready to die ; and now, my darling, you and Henry, are all that 
we have left. And Susie — father, where is Susie ? — call 
her. Oh, I am so happy ! " 

A single quick-drawn sigh — a loosening of the hand that 
lay in " father's " — a brightening of the smile that fell upon 
her two boys, and the mother had gone to join the dear ones in 
the better land. 

Weeks passed before the sunshine seemed bright again for 
Charley. Poor, repentant, mourning man! The graves of 
little Clarence and Kate, daisy-covered, upbraided him. The 
memory of George, asleep on the battlefield, and the grief -worn 
face of his old father, reproached him. 

The dear mother laid away had softened that reproach with 
her dying smile ; and yet " had he stayed/' and Charley shud- 
dered — " Might not that dear mother have lived longer ? " 

These thoughts made Charley tender and gentle to the childish 
old man, who clung to him with re-awakened love, and very 
grateful to Henry now a thriving farmer, who had been a good 
son. 

There was one who had not welcomed him in words; only 
by the fleeting brightness of eye and tremulous little hand, had 
he been greeted; and he asked for no more, not until she had 
gone back to her own home again, and the sun had risen and set 
many times above his mother's grave. 

Then, one evening — such an evening as that on which she 
had died — when Susie had run over with some dainty for 
the old man's tea, as she often did, Millard waited until she 
had kissed him good-by, and replied to his impatience at her 
going, that she would soon return, and then said: 

" Come, Susie, I want to talk to you." 

Susie turned silently in the path he led — that very little 
path over the hill and down the valley, until they reached the 
clump of plum-trees. 



296 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Millard may have wanted to talk to her ; but, strange enough, 
he spoke no word until they stood once more in the shadow of 
the trees. Then he turned toward her, and said, with a smile 
in his eyes that was not born of mirth : 

" Susie, I've come back again ! " 

And Susie, lifting her large, sad eyes, full now of a quaint 
happiness, only said: 

" I waited for you, Charley; but oh, you stayed so long! " 

For the New York Mercury. Saturday, April 6, 1867. 



THE PILLAE OF CLOUD 

"Well, I won't! " 

" Pshaw, Lettie ; you will, darling." 

" No, I won't ! " " 

Stanley Bury bent his brows slightly. 

" But, Lettie — " 

" I won't hear another word, Stanley ; so that's the end of it." 
Lettie's bright eyes flashed a little, and her red lips curled. 
" I suppose," she continued, twirling the heavy ring upon her 
left hand ; " that it's much worse in me to go with him than it 
is for you to take Kate Singleton to the dance." 

" She was my sister's guest," replied Stanley ; " and I could 
do no less. Now, Lettie, don't let's quarrel over this. Tell me 
that you will, not go." 

Lettie looked silently at the sweet, blue sky — at the silver 
thread of road winding beside the pleasant river, and the temp- 
tation was too great for her to resist. 

" No, Stanley, I'll go," she said, decidedly ; " and it won't 
do me any hurt." 

" Very well, Miss Lee." 

Tears sprang to naughty Lettie's eyes at his tone; but she 
answered saucily enough: 

" Yes, Mr. Burt, very well indeed." 

" You cannot play with me in this, Lettie." 

" I have no desire, sir, having playthings infinitely more 
amusing." 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 297 

" Very well ; you will go then ? " 

" Of course." 

Stanley Burt touched his hat slightly, and walked down the 
gravel-walk, opened the gate, and pausing one moment, irreso- 
lutely he called Lettie, in a voice that was most gentle. She 
went to him at once, and cast down her eyes, that he might not 
see the tears. 

" I was harsh just now, Lettie. Forgive me, dear ; but I 
know the character of the man so well, that I found I could 
not bear to have my pure darling with him for one moment. 
At all events — he shall not make us quarrel — shall he, dear ? " 

Lettie placed her hand on Stanley's shoulders, and lifted 
herself up on her tiptoes, so bringing her childish face level 
with his. 

" You're the best man in the world, Stanley, and I'm the 
worst girl. I'll not go this afternoon, dear; indeed I won't. 
You won't mind my having been so cross, will you ? but indeed 
I did want a ride this lovely afternoon." 

" That's my own darling." Stanley kissed his wilful 
" ladye " with unusual fondness, and walked away feeling very 
light of heart. 

" Poor child," he said to himself ; " she wants a ride, and she 
shall have one. I'll make her happy to-day. It's been a long 
time since I've given myself a holiday, and I don't wonder the 
darling thinks I'm sober and glum. I'll go this afternoon." 

True to his determination, Stanley Burt hired an elegant 
little turnout in the afternoon, and drove round to Lettie's, 
fancying her look of delighted surprise when she saw him ; but he 
was doomed to disappointment. ~No glad face flashed upon 
him from the window, no light step ran to greet him ; only the 
pompous servant said: 

" They are all out, sir." 

" Miss Lettie, too ? " 

" Yes, sir ; Miss Lettie went about an hour ago, out riding, 
sir." 

Stanley bit his lips. Had she gone then ? Perhaps it was a 
mistake. 

" Did she go alone ? " 

" No," the servant said ; " she went with a gentleman." 



298 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Silently Stanley turned from the house, and entered his car- 
riage. The sunshine had somehow lost its brightness, the soft 
spring air its freshness, and he snapped his whip maliciously at 
a full-throated blue-bird, which sat upon a twig, singing. 

" Hallo, old fellow/' called a chum, as he passed ; " you're too 
late to-day. I saw your * f aire ladye ' some time ago, with 
a dark-eyed Apollo, twice as handsome as you." 

It was he, then. Stanley, who was not handsome, envied 
Wilson Burt his beauty. How drearily the day passed. The 
slow hours which had promised so much brightness, were very 
dark. Stanley, at his desk, worried and chafed, longing for the 
evening, when he might see Lettie, and know why she had 
gone ; for his loving heart had many excuses which it urged. 

Wilson was his cousin, a handsome, fascinating man, enough 
to turn the head of any girl; but Stanley knew him to be ut- 
terly unprincipled, and therefore was so peremptory in his com- 
mand to his lady-love. 

" If she went," said Stanley, to himself ; " it was Wilson's 
fault. I can hardly blame her, she's such a child." 

While he yet thought, the door opened, and Wilson came in. 
He was of a truth very handsome, slender, graceful, with an 
oriental luxuriance of beard and hair, large, soft, dark eyes, and 
full, red lips, which parted in a bright almost vivid smile when 
he spoke. 

" At your desk yet, you slow fellow. What do you mean by 
letting other fellows run away with that bright little girl of 
yours. I've had a glorious ride. By Jove! you should have 
seen her eyes kindle when the sunset was reflected in the water. 
I never took my eyes from her face. It was worth a thousand 
sunsets. By-the-way Stan, you ought to know better than 
to make a girl swear that she won't do anything, for then she's 
sure to do it." 

Stanley put on his hat, drew on his gloves, and with scarcely 
so much as a nod said : " My tea-hour," and vanished, leaving 
Wilson somewhat amazed. 

" Cool, upon my word," said the latter ; " but I've made him 
happy for an hour at least ; shouldn't wonder if I broke it all off, 
they're both so proud. Ah, well, there's the seed planted. We'll 
wait for the fruit." 



EAKLY PROSE WORKS 299 

While Stanley Burt paced up and down the street, smoking 
innumerable cigars, Lettie Lee waited for his coming, her happy 
little face in a quiver of impatience. 

" I'm so glad I didn't go with Wilson, mamma," she said, 
laughing ; " for you see I had my ride all the same, and did good, 
too. Then Dr. Holmes is so sedate and grave, and altogether 

— with that long nose, poor fellow ! — so unprepossessing that 
Stanley can't object. I wonder what does keep him. He ought 
to have been here long ago." 

Ought to have been, but wasn't, not that night — nor the next 

— nor any other night for weeks. How slowly they dragged 
along for Lettie, in her home, grieving over Stanley's absence ; 
to Stanley, in his counting-room, brooding over Lettie's falsity, 
and Wilson Burt was everywhere. He told stories of Lettie's 
gayety to Stanley, and told Lettie queer tales of Stanley's flirt- 
ing; and so it came about that Wilson took Stanley's place 
among Lettie's friends, and was most kind and devoted. So 
it came about that Lettie's face lost something of its roundness, 
and her laugh rang less clearly than of old, and Stanley's brow 
bent a little more severely than was its wont. They never met 
now. Why should they? Wilson Burt bore news of each to 
each, and the pillar of cloud was between them. The sweet 
spring deepened into summer and brightened into autumn, and 
still these foolish lovers went their separate ways with aching 
hearts and smiling lips. It was whispered now that Wilson 
Burt and Lettie Lee would make a match. 

" Such a handsome couple ! " said Dame Rumor ; " much bet- 
ter for her than Stanley." 

I don't think these stories reached Lettie, but they certainly 
did not add to Stanley's happiness. He felt his peace slipping 
from him, but had she not been false? Would he, could he 
forget that promise sealed with so loving a kiss, and broken 
before the hour was gone? These questions Stanley answered 
— not verbally, but by staying sullenly and miserably in his 
own room. 

It was a clear, cloudless, moonlight night — such a night as 
we Northerners seldom enjoy. There was a faint breeze stir- 
ring in the lower part of the city, but above the river it was 
sultry and close. Stanley Burt, leaving his office, strolled 



300 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

listlessly down to the riverside. The wharf was crowded as 
usual with hackmen and draymen. Not at any time a very 
enticing neighborhood ; to-night it was worse than usual, for an 
organ-grinder had succeeded in collecting quite a crowd of men 
and boys, to whom he ground out a miserable burlesque of 
" Yankee Doodle/' receiving as compensation the pennies and 
scrip donated by an appreciative audience. Looking beyond 
these, Stanley saw a small ferry-boat, gay with happy faces just 
slipping out from among the other ferries for a downward moon- 
light trip. Acting from impulse, rather than inclination, Stan- 
ley pushed his way through the crowd and stepped on deck. 

" It's chartered, sir," said a man standing nearby. " Captain 
Hall, shall the gentleman stay ? " 

Captain Hall, an acquaintance of Stanley's, turned at 
this, shook hands cordially with him, and urged his remaining. 

" Go up on deck, Mr. Burt, you'll find some old friends there." 

Stanley obeyed, not that he wanted particularly to see old 
friends, but that the steam and baggage and sailors made the 
lower deck uncomfortable. He went up the winding stairs 
and found the little cabin well filled with happy couples. 
These he passed and went upon the guards. There, too, were 
several couples sitting, watching the moonlight upon the water, 
and talking in undertones. Selecting a silent corner, where a 
vacant stool lured him, he sat down and leaned over the rail- 
ing. The cool air fanned his brow, and the silver river flowed 
past him delightfully. At all times susceptible to outer and 
pleasanter influences, Stanley's rather heavy heart grew lighter 
to-night than it had been since he said good-by to Lettie at the 
gate. He was thinking of her and that time, when a familiar 
voice smote his ear, a low, sweet voice that could belong to no 
one else but Wilson Burt. 

" I saw Stan," he was saying, " as I came past the office. He 
was on his way to his fair fiancee, I suppose. He certainly 
looked happy enough. By the way, Miss Lettie, isn't it singu- 
lar that a man like him should degenerate into a flirt ? " 

Bending forward, Stanley heard the answer, and every low 
tone made his heart thrill. 

" He can never degenerate into a flirt, Mr. Burt. I know 
him better. He has known Miss Singleton for a long time ; and 
if he has learned to love her, I cannot see the wrong." 



EAELY PKOSE WOEKS 301 

" But the deuce of it is, Miss Lettie, that he should change so. 
Now I — " 

" Mr. Burt," and Lettie's voice was full of unexpressed pain, 
" please don't. Look how the moonlight quivers on the water 
there. Is not that beautiful ? There is a milky wave below as 
well as above. I wonder if our earth is not a moon to some 
other earth, as this is to us, and if its light is not even now 
glimmering upon some distant river ? " 

" They are dancing in the cabin, Miss Lettie. You are en- 
gaged for this dance, I think ? " 

" I will go in," said Lettie, rising at once ; and as she went 
Stanley bent his head lower yet on the railing until she passed. 
He had not thought that Wilson Burt would repeat a rumor 
that he knew to be false. Once again, and Stanley drew a deep 
breath, he would speak to Lettie Lee, and let her know the truth. 

" It might be," — how his heart beat at that — " that she 
could explain her broken promise. He would try." 

Elbowing his way through the small, crowded door, Stan- 
ley found himself in the little cabin where the mysteries of 
" right and left " were being gone through by three or four 
happy sets, to the music of the band. 

Lettie was dancing with Wilson Burt, and by the unctuous 
light of the lamps, Stanley thought she was pale. Perhaps she 
was, but she was spirited, save now and then — how quickly the 
eyes of love detected it — a little absent-minded. Through the 
long quadrille — and it was very long to Stanley — he, standing 
in the shadow, watched her; then, as she moved away on Wil- 
son's arm, he advanced. 

Not now; he could not speak now, yet there were already 
three or four gentlemen rushing frantically toward her with 
cards in their hands. He must, if possible, see her now. 

" Miss Lee," her name trembled slightly upon his lips as he 
spoke, " I wish you would promenade with me." 

Lettie started, looked into his face, and paled, visibly. 

Before she could reply, Wilson had answered for her : " How 
in the world did you get here, Stan ? You can't have Miss Lee 
for a long time. She dances with me, the polka." 

" Miss Lettie will answer for herself," replied Stanley, biting 
his lips. " Will you come ? " 

Who could resist that pleading, almost caressing tone ? Not 



302 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Lettie, certainly, when her foolish little heart was all a flut- 
ter. She took his arm at once, saying apologetically to Wilson, 
" For a little while, you'll excuse me, won't you ? " 

They walked upon the guards. The place was deserted for 
the cabin, but the bright moonlight and the soft evening air 
wooed them to remain. 

" I have something to say to you," Stanley began, and 
paused. He had thought it very easy to say, but now the words 
were wanting, yet with the old, careful kindness he drew her 
shawl closer. 

" Well ? " Lettie's voice was inquiring. 

" I want to tell you," recommenced Stanley, " that acci- 
dentally I overheard Mr. Burt 'telling you of my engagement 
to Miss Leighton. Miss Leighton is engaged to my brother." 

" And you are not ? " Lettie hesitated. 

With a half-smile, Stanley answered. " "No, I am not — 
and you — have you nothing to say to me ? " 

Lettie's face flushed painfully. " Nothing," she replied. 

" Then I was foolish to speak." 

" Mr. Burt," and Lettie's voice sank still lower than its 
usual semi-tone, " I do not know whether I ought to say this, 
but I will now since you have spoken. I do not know why 
you have acted so; nor why I, your betrothed wife, for many 
weeks have not seen you. This to me can mean but one thing. 
I accept the meaning." Lettie slipped the ring from her 
finger and laid it in his hand. " I only waited to see you for 
this. And now, Mr. Burt, take me to my partner." 

Stanley could not know the bitter sinking of her brave little 
heart ; but he was a just man, and could not be condemned un- 
justly. 

" I will tell you why I have been so cold and so troubled. 
When you promised me you would not ride with Wilson, I be- 
lieved you. In the afternoon I went to take you myself, and 
found that you were gone." 

" With whom ? " 

" With Wilson, of course." 

" How do you know ? " 

" Because as I was returning to my office, a friend said you 
had passed with a dark-eyed Apollo." 



EAKLY PEOSE WOEKS 303 

" Oh," Lettie laughed. 

Stanley frowned, and then continued : " And in the evening, 
Wilson himself came in and bantered me about letting you go 
with him." 

" Is that all?" 

u Is it not enough ? Dared I go when I felt that you had 
been false to your promise ? " 

" I am sorry," said Lettie, " that you had so little confidence 
in me. Had you come to me I could have told you the truth." 

" Lettie, is not this true % " 

" I went to ride," said Lettie steadily, " but not with your 
cousin. I refused him and told him the reason. I rode with 
Dr. Holmes, who may be an Apollo, but very few know it." 

" Miss Lettie, a host of gentlemen sent me for you. Come, 
Stanley, you mustn't monopolize, you know," cried Wilson 
Burt, putting his handsome face out the door. 

" Go in, Wilson, I will bring her presently," replied Stan- 
ley, hoarsely. 

" Lettie, Lettie, have I indeed been wrong ? " 

" You have been wrong, Stanley. Doctor Holmes took me 
to see a poor patient of his. Why did you not trust me?" 

" Why, indeed ? Will you, Lettie — dare I ask that you will 
forgive me, for indeed it was not lack of love." 

" It was a pillar of cloud," said Lettie, gravely. " Stanley, 
I will forgive you because I love you ; but, darling, you must 
trust me." 

Upon that second betrothal the moon smiled, and two happy 
hearts lifted up gratefully ; for had not the pillar of cloud be- 
come a light to guide them on their way? 

For the New York Mercury. Saturday, May 11, 1867. 



TINY KEOOK 

" Tiny Krook ! Tiny Krook ! Oh, here you are, Eich- 
ard wants you in the library," said her handsome cousin, 
Clara, to the little misshapen creature sitting on the music- 
stool, and weaving tender melodies to suit her fancy. At the 



304 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

summons, Tiny raised her head quickly, revealing a girl's face, 
clear and unshadowed by any tint of rose, with large mourn- 
ful gray eyes, and a tender tremulous mouth, the whole framed 
in by masses of dark waving hair, which fell, as she sat, almost to 
the floor. As she slid to the floor, she was no longer a beautiful 
child, but a poor little painful hunchback, with shoulders which 
should be plump, and slope softly away from that snowy neck, 
drawn and contorted beneath the pitying, shadowing dresses. 
She was, after all, but in nature as in name, a poor little tiny 
crook. She left the room now, moving with awkward conscious- 
ness of her deformity, beneath the somewhat scornful eyes of 
her cousin; but once in the twilight of the library, she closed 
the door with a deep sigh of relief, and lost all that awkward- 
ness, running gayly as a happier child, toward the manly boy 
standing by the window. He met her half-way, lifted her in his 
arms, with a brotherly caress, and playfully set her in the deep 
window seat, so bringing her shining head nearly to the height 
of his, as he leaned with his elbow upon it. 

" Clara said you wanted me, brother," said Tiny, in a voice 
suited to the tender sweetness of the mouth. 

" So I did, Tiny, so I did," said the boy slowly, " but how 
to tell you what I must, I don't know." 

"■ Is is bad news, Richard ? " asked Tiny, under her breath. 

" How old are you, Tiny ? " was the irrelevant reply. 

" Why, brother, you know I am just eighteen." 

" Why yes, so you are ; you are quite a little woman, little 
sister; you ought to be strong enough to bear a trial for your 
brother's sake." 

Tiny put her little arms about his neck, and kissed him. " I 
am strong enough to bear anything for your sake, Richard — 
strong and happy." 

" Dear little sister," he said softly, unfolding her clinging 
arms, " dear little sister." 

" What is it, Richard ? Do tell me." 

" Well then, Tiny, listen ; don't you remember the stories 
grandfather used to tell us long ago, of how he went to war, 
and fought for his country and freedom ? Don't you know that 
he lost his arm at Bloody Creek, and his ear in storming a 
fort, you remember all that ? " 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 305 

" I remember," said Tiny, under her breath, " I remember. 
Go on." 

" Well, Tiny, you know that I used to clench my fists, and say 
that if ever the time should come when I could fight for my 
country, I'd go ; and Grandfather used to pat my head, and say 
' Eight, boy, right ! ' Don't you recollect ? " 

" I remember," said Tiny, with a quivering lip. 

Eichard turned now, and put his arms about her. " Little 
sister," he said softly, " be strong, now, be my brave little 
woman. That time has come. I must go and fight for my 
country." 

Poor little Tiny, like a crushed lily, lay in his encircling arms. 
She did not faint, her agony was too great for that; but all 
the strength of her heart seemed gone, and she passively bore 
his tender kisses, only closing her eyes to shut in the crowding 
tears. " You know, darling," continued Eichard, " that the 
people here and all over the South want to break up this gov- 
ernment that Grandfather fought for, and I don't think he would 
be pleased if I didn't help to preserve it. So darling, because 
my country needs me, you must be brave, and let your brother 
go." 

" Oh, Eichard, what will become of me ? what will become 
of me ? " sighed the poor little creature, piteously. 

" Why Tiny, you must stay here just as you are, and Aunt 
Clara will have you just as she always has. I must go, be- 
cause it is right I should." 

That was all that Tiny knew of the war. She had read none 
of the able arguments pro and con. She did not so much as 
know that there were such in existence, but Eichard had pointed 
out to her the right way, and enforced his way by actions ; so 
henceforth Tiny knew but one party for the right one, and her 
woman's heart shone through the child's face, as she said 
firmly : " I will be strong, brother, since it is right. Go, and 
God bless you, but — oh," and here the pitiable child broke 
through the heroic woman ; " Oh, Eichard — brother Eichard, I 
shall be so lonely, so alone." 

u So you will, dear, but you can write me long letters, and 
think of those I'll 'write to you; and I'll tell you all the fun we 
have in camp, and all that," said Eichard, soothingly. 



306 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" When are you going, brother ? " 

" To-morrow, Tiny, or the day after ; but it's tea-time now, 
and I hear the bell; come, my little woman, my brave darling 
little sister, we'll go to tea." 

Smiling, the better to deserve his praises, Tiny twined her 
arms about his neck, and put her face from him so that he 
might not see that she was smiling through tears. And so the 
brother and sister went down to tea, both hearts heavy at the 
thoughts of a speedy parting. 

He was gone. The last kiss was given. The last sound of 
his footsteps had died away, and poor little Tiny knew that 
her brother was forever gone from her. She could not help 
that feeling. " Forever," she repeated over and over again, 
and her foreboding heart re-echoed " Forever, forever ! " 

" He will come again, Tiny," they all said, pitying the deso- 
late whiteness of her face. " He will soon be home, child. 
Don't grieve so." 

But Tiny was not to be comforted. She could only smile — 
a more miserable smile than any sigh — and sadly shake her 
head. 

Weeks passed. Tiny's uncle declared himself in favor of 
" State sovereignty," and accepted a commission as Captain of 
a Home Guard. From that time his sympathies were apart 
from Bichard, and Tiny's loving heart was often pained by his 
unkind allusion to her brave young brother ; but she bore it all 
silently, for had she not promised Bichard to be strong? and 
more than that began to think how best she could serve him. 
Her weak little fingers began busying themselves knitting socks 
for the soldiers; and she watched the papers with a feverish 
eagerness, if perhaps her brother's company might be men- 
tioned. 

So a year passed, and January — stinging, cold, frosty, Jan- 
uary came. Bichard had not once been home since his going, 
and Tiny's uncle had joined the Confederate forces in the field, 
and was now encamped about two miles from home. He came 
home quite frequently, bringing officers with him; for Clara's 
beauty in itself was a temptation to the chivalry, and that, 
with the good fare generally to be found at Captain Krook's, 
was irresistible. On one evening — it was the first part of Jan- 



EARLY PKOSE WOEKS 307 

nary — Captain Krook brought home a party of eight gentle- 
men to dinner, among them one whom Tiny knew to be con- 
sidered as a most excellent spy, for her ears had not been deaf 
during his frequent calls at their house. She knew, too, that 
Clara was not indifferent to him, and had grown to think, 
without much reason, but from an intuitive knowledge of her 
cousin's character, that Clara had on more than one occasion 
obtained for him important news from the Federal officers. 
This man, James Clay by name, Tiny resolved to watch. She 
was so childlike and so apparently indifferent to their con- 
versation that no reserve was considered necessary in her pres- 
ence. Even her uncle, so little did he understand her, believed 
her ideas regarding the two armies vague and undefined. 
It was just dusk when the party sat down to dinner, and it was 
quite dark when the ladies left the dining room and wines 
were brought in. Tiny, as usual, free to do as she liked, left 
the room with the ladies, but presently returning, sat down 
softly, under the shadows of the window-curtains. If any of 
the guests observed her enter, they soon forgot the fact, and in 
her silent, shadowed nook the little spy cat, apparently reading, 
really listening for all the news that might accidentally fall 
from unguarded lips. 

" The Feds'll find they reckoned without their host," said 
her uncle laughing ; " when our forces take possession of the 
city they'll be surprised enough." 

" We're sure to do it," said James Clay. " I made a good 
haul to-day myself ; and that reminds me I must reach camp to- 
night, and deliver up my papers." 

" How's that, Clay ? " asked the party, in a breath. 

Clay cautiously lowered his voice. 

" I met a fellow," he said smiling, " who looked ragged 
enough, and gray enough to be one of our privates, but the chap 
didn't exactly strike me as belonging to the chivalry, so I ordered 
him to halt. I was well mounted, but quite alone; instead of 
his obeying me, he put spurs to his horse and sent back a defiant 
shout. I rode after him, and I tell you Black Bess flew like a 
bird, but the rascal was ahead of me, for he flew faster than any 
bird ; so when I found that he was going to give me the slip, I 
sent a bullet after him. That stopped his horse, I grant you; 



308 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

and as I came closer, I sent another, which stopped him. He 
fell from his staggering horse with a groan. I hadn't meant to 
kill him, but he was dying fast enough when I reached him. 
Well, I found he had a Fed's uniform under his disguise, and 
I found some sealed papers in his belt, which must go to my 
Colonel in the morning, bright and early." 

" Hadn't they better go to-night ? " asked Captain Krook, 
anxiously. If they are important I had best send them at once." 

Clay glanced through the window into the darkness without, 
listened to the sleet as it broke against the window-panes, shud- 
dered, and said: 

" Important enough for me to keep in my own hands, but 
I'll not start till daylight. This blasted sleet is too much for 
a fellow's nerves. To-morrow '11 do, I fancy." 

" I'll carry the papers to-night," volunteered a young aspir- 
ant for martial glory, rejoicing in the name of John. 

" Not a bit of it," yawned Clay. " I'll make my pillow of 
them to-night, and Bess'll take me in the morning. The Feds 
aren't eight miles from here, and I might fall in their hands 
in the darkness. No, no, we'll wait." 

Softly the little creature buried in the shadow of the window- 
curtains slipped from her concealment, and unobserved, passed 
out the side door. She went at once to the drawing-room, 
where her Aunt and Clara were awaiting the appearance of the 
gentlemen. 

" Aunt," said Tiny, " do you know where the bottle of chlo- 
roform is? my head isn't right to-night," 

" In the side-cupboard, child, but be careful how you use it, 
as it is very strong." 

'" I will," said Tiny ; " I'll use it just as it should be, Aunt 
Clara." 

The storm forbade the gentlemen from returning to camp 
until morning. Accordingly they had a gay time in the parlors, 
and it was not until nearly midnight that Tiny heard her uncle 
say lightly : 

" I guess you'd best go to bed, friends, if we're to be up at 
daybreak to-morrow. Clay, in consideration of — you know 
what, I'll give you the east room. It's a capitally safe place." 

Then Tiny slipped out the room with her phial of chloro- 



EAELY PEOSE WOEKS 309 

form, and went softly to her own. She knew that every room 
in the house had duplicate keys. She knew, too, where the 
duplicates were. That to the east room was already in her 
pocket. She had a duty to perform, and now was no time to 
hesitate. 

" Tiny," she said to herself, over and over again ; " be a brave 
girl, and save your country that Eichard's fighting for. You 
must take the papers to camp to-night, if it is dark and stormy." 

It seemed to her countless ages before she heard Clay retire 
to his room. Then it was a long time before the house grew 
still. At last she ventured. Her key slid noiselessly and 
easily into the lock. The door was open. Clay's hard breath- 
ing told her that he was yet undisturbed. The child put her 
hand on to her heart to still its terrified beating. A moment 
more, and the fumes of chloroform were rising in his nostrils. 
His hard breathing gradually subsided into gentle sighs, and 
then he scarce seemed to breathe at all. Tiny knew that he 
would not awaken for some hours. With a still movement she 
ran her hand beneath his pillow. Joy ! The package was in 
her hand. So far she was safe. Holding her precious papers 
in her bosom as she went, she swiftly passed out the room, not 
pausing to lock the door again, and ran down stairs. There she 
paused to wrap her little form in a thick coat, and to tie her 
curls under a hood. This done, she opened the door. It 
creaked on its hinges, and she almost shrieked from terror, lest 
some one should hear her. But there was no sound. Perfect 
quiet reigned. Tiny passed out and closed the door ; then ran 
with a timorous, beating heart to the stables. 

As she knew beforehand the horses were standing in their 
stalls, saddled for instant use ; and Jack, the boy, who was sup- 
posed to guard them, was not to be seen — preferring, most 
probably, the warmth of the cabin to the chill of the stable. 
Tiny could ride like a monkey. Her small, misshapen body 
seemed made for just such exercise; and Eichard had spared 
no pains to perfect her in the exercise, since she was fond of it. 

Perfectly fearless now, she led out the Black Bess belonging 
to Mr. Clay and climbing on the block, mounted him. A word, 
a touch, and he flew down the lane, out into the broad road, 
and forward. Cold and chill might fall the sleet; bitter and 



310 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

cold might be the night, but the heroic little creature thought 
not of it. Easter and faster she urged her good steed. Easter 
yet, on, on, until his ringing hoofs struck fire from the way- 
side stones. Still on, for work must be done, and she might 
be followed. The driving sleet hung about her, but she cared 
not. Still her clear voice chirruped encouragement to her 
horse. Through the thick darkness he kept to the road, and she 
clung blindly to the bridle. 

" Halt ! and give the countersign." 

Black Bess reared suddenly as a strong hand grasped him 
by the bit, and Tiny, breathless from hard riding, smiled to 
know that her task was finished. 

" What the deuce is it, anyhow ? questioned the soldier. 
" Can't you speak % " 

" I want to see the General," gasped Tiny. " I have im- 
portant news for him." 

" A girl ! And by George ! no bigger than my thumb ! " 
ejaculated the man, throwing the light from a lantern on Tiny's 
face. 

" Why, child, you can't see the General. How do I know 
but what you're a Beb in disguise ? " 

" Oh, sir, I'm not," said the child, earnestly ; " I'm Richard 
Krook's little sister, and he's in camp here." 

"Ha! I wonder if that's so. I'll trust you, anyhow, 
though you haven't any countersign." 

The soldier lifted the slight form off the horse, but the exer- 
tion had been too much for her. As he placed her on the 
ground, she fell fainting. With true soldierly fashion, he 
carefully examined her dress and face, and then gave a low 
whistle. In a moment, seeming to spring from the darkness, 
half a dozen guards surrounded the child, and the soldier told 
the story as she had given it to him. 

" Is Dick Krook on picket to-night ? " he asked. 

"Here," cried a voice in the background; and Richard 
pushed forward. 

One glance at the still white face, and he had caught his 
little sister in his arms. No thought of the lookers-on, no 
thought of how she came there. His kisses were on her face, 
and she slowly opened her eyes to smile at him. Ay, happy 
even then to greet him. 



E.AELY PKOSE WOEKS 311 

" Tiny, darling, how came you here ? What brought you ? " 

Her lips motioned, but no words came. 

" She says she has papers," explained the guard, " and wants 
to give them to the General." 

" Where are they, little sister ? " 

She put her little hand on her bosom, and slowly drew out 
from the folds of her cloak the package. 

Eichard and two other guards being relieved at once, pre- 
ceeded to the General's tent, deeming the papers of sufficient 
importance to be delivered at once, since that weak child had 
ridden so far through rain and sleet. Then he took her to his 
own tent; and mother could not have more tenderly cared for 
her child than did Eichard that night for his little sister. 

The following morning, Tiny was quite recovered from her 
weakness, and sat on a box by the fire, laughing at Eichard's 
funny jokes, when a summons came for both to go to the Gen- 
eral's tent. 

Eeassuring his bashful little sister, Eichard led her there at 
once. The General met them kindly, and took the little hand 
of Tiny in his own. 

" I wanted to thank you personally for your heroism, little 
one," he said, " and to tell you that you have saved me from a 
surprise and a defeat ; since, had those papers reached the ene- 
my's hands, I must have suffered both. Krook, you have reason 
to be proud of your sister. I hope that you may prove as brave 
a hero, as she did a heroine." 

Eichard led Tiny back to his tent, gladdening her loving little 
heart with his praises; and the child, taking advantage of his 
evident delight in having her near him, plead earnestly : 

" Let me stay here always, Eichard." 

" Stay here, Tiny ! Why, dear, you could never bear all the 
hardships of a camp-life. Aren't you happy at your aunt's ? " 

" Yes, but I want to stay here with you. I shall die if you 
don't keep me, Eichard. I am so alone. See how thin I am 
getting." 

She held up her little transparent hands ; and as he took them 
in his own, he bent and kissed her. 

" You shall stay, little sister ; you shall stay," he said, at 
length, " and we will be as careful of you as we can." 



312 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

From that time, Tiny was established as the daughter of the 
regiment ; and many a brave man will remember the face of the 
little hunchback as it gleamed above him on the battle-field; 
many parched lips will remember their fervent blessings as her 
hand gave them drink. Her voice cheered the wounded and 
comforted the dying; her face shone like a star of hope upon 
the despairing, and her light feet were never too weary to run 
on willing errands. She never passed a soldier but he bowed 
and touched his cap, as though an angel passed him by, and she 
grew to bear the name of " Angel of the Camp. 7 ' To those 
who lived about her, and noted her patience under discomforts 
and pain ; her tender sympathy and never-ceasing ministrations, 
she was no longer deformed but glorified; and when the fatal 
fever stole her beautiful soul from its setting to shrine 
it in a holier casket, there was not a man in the regiment but 
wept her loss, not a heart but felt her absence, and not a voice, 
however unused to pray or bless, but breathed over her beauti- 
ful, still face a fervent " God bless the child.' 7 So lived and 
died " The Angel of the Camp " ; so was the deformed trans- 
formed, and the little crooked-backed girl, with the calm, holy 
face, transfigured, leaving but the fragrance of her life to re- 
mind the men that she had lived, as faded roses whisper of de- 
parted springs. 

For the New York Mercury, November 9, 1867. 



Descriptions of " the Falls," though numerous as autumn leaves on the 
grass, have the peculiar merit of ever being interesting, if the writer (as 
in the present instant) brings sentiment and poetical thought to cover the 
baldness of topographical detail. 

UNDER THE FALLS 

I have been under the Falls. I suppose everybody has been 
the same ; that is, everybody who has been there at all and has 
had the courage to don the outrageous garb necessary thereto, 
and dare the consequence: viz, a thorough wetting. I did. 
The day was glorious. In the morning a rapid rain-storm had 
passed over, washing the dust from the leaves, and freshening 
their green beauty; and then all the gates of Heaven were 



EAELY PKOSE WORKS 313 

opened, and the sudden glory of the sun transfigured the scene. 
Above us the blue sky, flecked with misty white clouds, sphered 
in an intensity of color that Italian skies could not surpass. 
From the museum windows I could see the mist rising from the 
Falls in a yellow glory. Then, listening to the ceaseless noise 
of the cataract, 'and looking at so glorious a scene, I forgot my- 
self, until one of the maids in waiting touched me. " Will 
you put these on, Miss ? " Put those on ! She had in her hand 
a pair of number seven rubbers, or rather the fragments of a 
pair, for they were cut and torn by stones; on her arm she 
carried a loose yellow oilcloth sack, 'a pair of long blue hose, 
and such a bonnet — that bonnet haunts me yet. It was yel- 
low, like the dress, made close to fit the face, with a long cur- 
tain, and pinned under the chin. It is a brave woman who will 
wear , that garb. While I was dressing, a mother with her 
baby came in. The baby, a chubby little fellow of a year or 
thereabouts, utterly refused to know his mother in her new 
dress, and no wonder. The handsomest girl I know could not 
stand that test. My companion was, if possible, yet more dis- 
figured. You know how a man looks in a bonnet. Fancy this 
one in a yellow, limpid hood, with the curtain pinned under 
his chin. While we mutually laughed — I at his appearance 
and (I am afraid, he at mine — we were assailed by an obliging 
photographer, who insisted upon taking us " natural as life." 
Taking us, indeed. It's well enough to be a fright for fifteen 
minutes to see the Falls, but the idea of being limned up so, 
and presented to a host of friends as we appeared at our worst, 
is preposterous. We declined the obliging photographer's offer, 
and called the guide. I wonder if he guides every one down 
there, and if so, why everybody don't rave about him. He is 
straight as an arrow, and wears his oilcloth suit as a king's robes, 
tall and black and stately, a guide fit only for Niagara. He 
strode on before us, and we, hand in hand, followed the tortuous 
path, like the Babes in the Wood, and were buried (that's a pun) 
under the mists. Half way down the gravelly path we found an 
artist sketching. I hope his picture will be a success. I don't 
think it will. Its tints were precisely those of my yellow bonnet 
and blue stockings. The scene from this point was grand. The 
white, ceaseless cataracts were linked together by a brilliant 



314 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

bow, whose center touched the quiet river. Before us rose 
the rugged, rocky heights shadowing the water, and the golden 
mist poured like incense from the foaming chalice, into the 
clear air. Over all, like God's benediction, bent the blue, blue 
sky, and " God saw that it was good." We stood silently here 
for some time, and the guide as silently waited, with a far away 
look in his eyes that saw neither flood nor sky. Then we took 
up the line of march singly now, for the path was narrow, and 
proceeded. Here we met a party of twelve returning, rosy, 
dripping, laughing, and, in their suits, merrily frightful. Let 
no devotee to carmine, rouge, or enamel, venture here. She 
will be all washed out in ten minutes, for these mists are very 
penetrating. Passing this party who had the lilies and the 
roses blown by cool fresh water in their faces, we carefully 
passed on, down more steps, and then " beneath the shadow of a 
great rock." Now, indeed, were we under the falls. The 
breeze from the river blew the mist in our faces, and the great 
flood fell ceaselessly, washing us in beneath one rock from all 
other sights and sounds. " Can't we go farther ? " I asked the 
guide, who stopped here and turned. For reply, with a faint 
smile, he led us forward. Swifter and colder came the mist 
in our faces, until we stood so heavily coated that we could see 
nothing. " ~No farther, Miss," said the guide. " Where does 
the water come from ? " asked my companion, looking forward 
with a laudable curiosity, which was instantly dampened by 
a stream of water striking his head and trickling coolingly 
down his back. I suppose he was satisfied as he did not look 
up again until we had passed the falls in the distance. When 
we emerged from the vaporous darkness, for it was kind of a 
gray darkness (if that is admissible), the scene was brighter for 
our partial blindness. For a long time we stood enjoying it, 
and then returned to the Museum, rather wet, but very glad 
that we went. I am told that the scene from the " Cave of 
the Winds " is even finer and as I know it can't be wetter, I 
should advise all young voyagers to take that trip. 

For the New York Mercury, Saturday, November 16, 1867. 



EARLY PROSE WOEKS 315 



KATY'S ROMANCE 



" It's of no use, John/' .said Katy again, with that pretty, 
knitting of her brows. " I'm sorry as I can be ; but if it's all 
the same to you, we'll go back and be as we were." 

" But it's not all the same to me, Katy, and you know that 
right well," responded John, setting his honest eyes upon her 
face. " And as for our going back and being as we were, that's 
all nonsense. We could no more do that than we could go 
back into infancy. Then it's so foolish of you, Katy." 

Katy shrugged her white shoulders, but made a reply not a 
whit less decidedly than before. 

" Foolish or not, John Cambell, I've made up my mind I'll 
not be engaged to you, because you're too much like Dick and 
Sam. I want romance. Now if that brother of yours should 
come — " 

" I suppose," interrupted John moodily, " you'd throw me 
over and take him, just because of his trim mustache and con- 
founded city-ways. That's the way with you women." 

" I guess I should," said Katy, provokingly. " He's amiable, 
at all events; and doesn't say, Confounded." 

" Well " — John laughed in spite of himself — " So," said 
he, " I'm discarded : first, because I am the first man who ever 
professed to love you (reason enough, too), and secondly, be- 
cause there's no romance, and I am too humdrum for your 
taste. Really, Miss McLeod, your reasons do you credit. 
Just what I should have expected from a girl of your intellect. 
They are unanswerable, I must acknowledge. Good-evening, 
Miss McLeod." 

And John walked straight out the door and down the walk, 
never even glancing back for the little faint cry which might 
have been the wail of a whip-poor-will, but which sounded like 
poor Katy's voice saying: 

" Oh, John ! " 

The fact was, Katy had been very trying, and John very for- 
bearing, until the little flirt had made up her mind that it 
would never do to settle down into plain John Cambell's 
wife, and live in sight of his very unromantic oyster-depot. 



316 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

With her, to think was to act; and when honest-hearted John 
went that evening with a basket of peaches for his pet, he 
was coolly informed that there was no congeniality between 
them. 

Here was a pleasant state of things. There was no end to 
the fruits and flowers, rides and rows, and delicacies that John 
had lavished upon that girl. And then this was the worst of 
it, and what pained him most, he had loved her for two years ; 
and now, as he went home in a — well, we'll say in an un- 
amiable humor — he was forced to confess that he loved her 
yet. It was unfortunate, very, these life and death attach- 
ments always are. But after all, what's to be done about it? 
John, unromantic fellow, sitting with his feet upon a chair 
and a cigar between his lips, asked that question many times, 
and before it was answered to his satisfaction, there was a tap 
at the door, and in tumbled Dick McLeod. 

" Thought I should find you up," said Dick, " so I rushed 
around here to know what's up between you and Sis. Come, 
old fellow, let's know." 

With a curl upon his handsome lip, John told the story, then 
paused. 

" Well," said Dick, " what's going to be done ! " 

" That's what I want to know." 

" Sis is a dear, good girl, and a nice sister ; but she's got a 
knick in her head that will work mischief all round, if we are 
not careful. Now, I'll tell you, John — " 

And here we must leave them, as Dick drew his chair closer 
to John's, and spoke so low that only John could hear. 

" How handsome John Campbell is growing," said Lide Tay- 
lor, maliciously to Katy, about six weeks later ; " I declare he's 
a perfect picture. See, Katy, there he goes. Don't he ride 
superbly? And that's Carrie Farwell with him. They say 
they're engaged. Law ! They're coming this way." 

Kate drew her little form to its full height, and waited — 
waited with a beating heart and paling cheek; and the gay 
riders came on, in an easy, graceful lope. How she wished 
they would hurry. Every hoof-beat was on her heart. Now 
they were passing. 

Ah! he saw her, and lifted his hat with a graceful kindli- 



EARLY PROSE WORKS 317 

ness, more painful because it was so simply kind. And Carrie, 
too, smiled upon her and 'bowed until her long curls, and the 
white plume lying upon them like foam, were all aquiver in 
the sunlight. 

Katy bowed back to them, with Lide Taylor's unfriendly 
eyes upon her, and then turned carelessly away. 

" John is quite a flirt," continued Lide, sweetly consoling. 
"You're not the only one, Katy, not by a dozen; so you must 
not fret, deary — he's such a flirt." 

" You don't speak from experience," retorted Katy, stung 
beyond all endurance, " as he never flirted with you. And I 
don't feel hurt, for it's just as it should be." 

" Of course it is, deary, but I thought you looked pale when 
they passed just now." 

Katy turned silently away. She was no match with her 
enemy in this bushwacking. In an open, hand-to-hand con- 
flict she would have come off conqueror. 

It was not Lide's intention to offend, so she followed her 
friend, and twining her arm about her, began again: 

" Do you know, Katy darling, that Nat Cambell is here ? 
He's handsome as a — good gracious, Kit ! there he is now. 
Dick is bringing him up the walk. And my hair is in a perfect 
muss." 

Katy turned with a faint flush upon her cheek, which made 
her very prettv, and Dick walked straight to her and introduced 
" Mr. Nat Cambell." 

Lide bowed and smiled, and began a chattering conversation. 
But Nat turned from her to the sweeter face of Katy. At 
that, Dick knit his brows. He didn't like Nat Campbell. 
Handsome, stylish, brilliant he certainly was, but Dick would 
have said he didn't ring clear — there was too much of the 
base metal about him. 

Ingleside gossips reported two engaged couples ; Carrie Ear- 
well to John Cambell, and Kate McLeod to Nat Cambell. 
And they were as near truth as gossips generally are. If 
Katy desired romance she had it now, for father, mother, 
brothers, one and all, opposed Nat Cambell. This led to a 
series of delightful stolen rambles through the lanes, and some 
charming (or Katy tried to think they were, though she was 



318 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

in such terrible fear lest she should be found out) drives along 
unfrequented roads. And this, in time, led to Nat's proposing 
an elopement. 

" It will be so romantic, darling," urged he, bending his 
handsome eyes entreatingly upon her ; " and your father will 
soon forgive you, won't he ? " 

What good angel touched Katy's ear then and made her dis- 
trust Nat CambelPs voice, I wonder. She hesitated one mo- 
ment, and then replied: " Yes, Nat, but there is something I 
must tell you first ; you know my father is a stern, unflinching 
man, and he never breaks his word, and, in short, unless I 
marry John Cambell, every cent I own in the world reverts to 
Sam and Dick." 

Some words came from between his set teeth Katy could not 
hear, and then he replied in the same gentle voice in which he 
always spoke: 

" That's bad, Katy dear, very ; but you know that I am pen- 
niless also; but you surely must have something in your own 
right." 

" Nothing ; not a penny, Nat ; but you won't mind that, will 
you ? " 

" Of course not, my dear," was the reply. But Katy noticed 
that Nat said no more of eloping that evening. 

With all her faults, Katy McLeod was a sensible, kind- 
hearted girl; and that evening proved her so. 

" Nat," said she, simply. " I've been very wrong, I know, 
though I think you have deserved it, remember; but I want 
to tell you that I've been flirting with you, for the romance of 
the thing." 

" And won't you marry me, Katy ? " 

" Marry you ? Of course not. Where would be the ro- 
mance in that, you silly boy? It would be altogether hum- 
drum, for me to marry you and settle down to poverty. Now, 
wouldn't it?" 

" Not very romantic, I am afraid," assented poor Nat. 
" But, Katy — " 

" Don't Katy me, Nat. You know very well enough that 
you're not able to marry a wild thing like me without something 
substantial to make up for it; and I know you're not heart- 



EAELY PKOSE WOKKS 319 

broken. So let us go home, like sensible people, and keep our 
own counsel." 

Straight through the main street of Ingleside, Katy walked 
with her somewhat crestfallen chevalier, and so home. She 
never did anything by halves. She had sinned in her whole- 
souled way, and now her repentance was of the same kind. 
Her father and mother were sitting on the stoop, with anxious 
faces, as she came up the walk (Nat had pled an engagement 
and left her at the gate) ; and the prodigal child curled herself 
down between them and told the whole story, simply and truly, 
concluding with : 

" I'll never be so foolish again, you dear, cross old papa, and 
you good, good mother; so kiss your naughty girl, and let's 
make up." How could they resist such a plea; and especially 
when their little Katy pled? They couldn't. But it was a 
long time before Katy found out that Dick had been there in 
advance, and made the way straight for her. 

" Such a pretty picture," said Katy, softly to herself ; " but 
it makes my heart ache." 

It was a pleasant scene. The setting sun had gilded the rich 
clusters of grapes to burnished bronze, and turned the vines to 
gold. Beneath them Katy saw a young girl, robed in white, 
standing with her arms upraised, to catch a luscious cluster 
which swung above her head. At her feet, beside a willow 
basket, half full of grapes, half-knelt Dick. His eyes were 
upon her face, with an earnest loving look that made Katy 
tremble for his heart; and back of her, playfully twining a 
wreath among the dancing, floating curls, stood John Cambell. 
A pretty picture, very. What a pity it made Katy's heart 
ache. The girl was Carrie Farwell. Silently Katy was turn- 
ing away from the scene, only her own heart knowing its bit- 
terness, when Dick caught the gleam of her dress, and called 
out: 

"Hallo!" 

He sprang to his feet, thereby overturning the basket of fruit, 
and beckoned her toward them. Katy shook her head quietly. 
Dick shook his head saucily. 

" Come here, Kitty. Don't you hear your elder brother 
when he speaks? Come and pick up these grapes, spilled for 



320 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

your own dear sake; and beside, here are some callers. 'Not 
finding you, we decided to be happy, if possible, until you came. 
Come here, Sis." 

With lips compressed and paling cheeks, Katy advanced. 
Her foolish little heart was all a nutter. John Cambell offered 
his hand; Carrie Farwell not only offered hers, but touched 
Katy's cold lips with her own warm, rosy ones, laughing and 
blushing. Katy wondered what made Dick so happy. 

" Katy," said he, " why don't you congratulate the happy 
ones ? " 

" Oh, Dick, how can you ? " began Carrie. But Dick stopped 
her. Katy, brave little woman, after the first shock, rallied 
nobly. 

" I do, most heartily," she said, sweetly. "And, John, I 
must ask your forgiveness for what I said. I have learned bet- 
ter. Carrie, at your best, you can only be worthy of him." 

Carrie laughed and looked puzzled. Katy's lips were 
trembling, and faintness warned her to turn away from them. 
But a gentle arm supported her — Dick's of course — and the 
poor child burst into tears. 

" It was so hard," she sobbed aloud. " Oh, Dick, Dick." 

" There, there," soothed a voice — not Dick's. " It was too 
bad and I should never have done it only for Dick. He said 
it was the only way." 

Katy sprang suddenly from the embracing arm, and faced — 
John Cambell. 

" It's a shame, sir," she flashed, indignantly. " Here you 
have been flirting with Carrie Farwell, and broken her heart, 
and, now you think you'll come to me again. No, sir; you go 
back to Carrie Farwell, and see if you can grow half good enough 
for her." 

Facing her, with mirth in his honest blue eyes, John Cambell 
made answer by simply pointing back to the arbor. The gol- 
den sunshine, slanting now, gilded Carrie's curls, and shone like 
a halo about her face ; and, wonder of wonders with his homely 
face transfigured into absolute beauty by the magic wand of 
love, over her bent Dick. Worse than that, Dick's arm was 
about the slender waist, and Dick's hand upon the golden 
brown curls. 



EAKLY PEOSE WORKS 321 

" What does it all mean ? " asked Katy. 

" It all means romance/' was the reply. " My little witch, 
are you ready for the reality \ Let us go and congratulate the 
new sister and brother elect." 

Kate took the offered arm, but John did not move. 

"Katy," he said, returning meaningly her look, " if you go 
with me, I shall understand that you forgive all of our wicked 
plotting, and that you and I are not only ready to give but to 
accept congratulations." 

And Katy — I'm sorry, for it wasn't at all romantic; but I 
must tell the truth at the end of a story — Katy went. 

For the New York Mercury. December 21, 1867. 



LATER PROSE WORKS 

SUNDAY SCHOOL CONVOCATION 
Bible Class Teaching 

Among so many Bible teachers of experience and note, I 
would hesitate to present my crude ideas did I not remember 
that even the tiniest piece of glass in a kaleidoscope does its 
share in the formation of the perfect figure which so delights 
our eyes, and in like manner, every earnest Christian teacher 
should add to his or her quota, insignificant though it be, to 
reach a perfect understanding of this most important subject. 

Bible teaching theoretically, is delightful and easy, practi- 
cally it requires all the patience, energy, tact, and intelligence 
of which the speaker is capable. 

The Bible classes generally found in our Sunday Schools 
are young men and maidens just emerging into manhood and 
womanhood, full of fun, frolic and conceit, altogether lovable, 
altogether difficult. Too young to have maturity of intellect 
and deportment, they are yet too old to be governed as little 
children. How best to manage, and educate, this element in 
our Sunday Schools is a problem difficult of solution. We 
must arrest their attention, excite their interest, stimulate their 
industry, touch their hearts, and through these avenues, their 
consciences, thus guiding them by insensible degrees, to the 
higher life. 

They are frequently wearied by too much teaching. As a 
rule they read many emotional books and find the Bible dry by 
comparison. They are occupied by their amusements and les- 
sons and unwilling to devote time to Bible study, and they 
come Sabbath after Sabbath to their classes, congratulating 
themselves that they are willing to come at all, careless, unpre- 
pared, uninterested, and go away again but little better for com- 
ing. 

322 



LATEE PKOSE WOEKS 323 

How then shall we induce these young people to search the 
Scriptures until they discover that in them lies the germ of 
all good books ? 

Are they fond of history ? What other works compare with 
the quaint histories of the Old Testament? Of romance? 
Where is the peer of those delightful stories of Euth and of 
Jacob ? Of poetry ? Our greatest poets of earliest ages have 
stood in silent admiration before the grand and solemn sym- 
phonies of the Sacred Writings. Here is an inexhaustible 
mine of hidden treasures. They have but to search and find. 

Our present methods, while presenting a great improvement 
on earlier efforts, are not entirely successful. Our lesson 
papers following the Church year, change their theme weekly, 
and scholars complain that they no more than get interested in 
a subject than they are obliged to drop it. They are too frag- 
mentary, a few verses frequently being taken from the middle 
of a chapter. The student learns what is on the lesson paper, 
but will not take the trouble to read the entire chapter, conse- 
quently he fails entirely to comprehend the lesson. 

I would suggest that for this method the topical one be sub- 
stituted — that is, that one subject be taken and followed up, 
until we have, so far as possible, mastered it. 

Consider it in every phase, geographically, historically, and 
morally. Take for illustration the story of Moses, his beauti- 
ful infancy; preservation; education; the glories of Egypt; 
his abandonment of the higher estate; his sin, and flight into 
Midian; the long years of his sojourn there; return to Egypt; 
his leadership of the hosts of Israel; his journey through the 
wilderness and so on, until he stands on Nebo's top with un- 
dimmed eye and unabated strength, viewing from afar the 
promised land which he may never enter. 

This is the story. Now for the method of treating it. 
First let a map be examined by the class and all the localities 
spoken of be thoroughly understood. When they once see that 
such a place as the land of Goshen is really on the map of 
Egypt they begin to realize the story of Jacob's sojourn there 
may be real. 

Then let each scholar have a few questions which he must 
answer the following Sunday. Eor instance the date of oc- 



324 THE OLD SCBAP BOOK 

curence, the condition of the land of Egypt at that time, and of 
the Egyptians, their religion, their civilization, their reigning 
monarch, the condition of the Jews at that time, their re- 
ligion, the genealogy of Moses and his parents; all that can be 
learned of his early life, etc. Each scholar taking separate 
questions is stimulated to search histories, bibical and secular, 
text books and dictionaries, rather than come empty handed 
to his class. He is made to feel himself an important factor 
in the success of the whole, and by this means becomes interested 
in ancient and sacred history, and begins faintly to comprehend 
the gradual development of the wonderful gospel plan. 

At his feet are spread all the great treasures of the Orient. 
By rubbing this Aladdin's lamp he summons to his aid the Genii 
of all ages. Science opens to him her stores of hard-earned 
gems ; buried cities rise again from their ashes to bear their tes- 
timony; obelisks upon the faces carry to him their separate 
contributions, and even the buried princes of the house of 
Egypt are roused from their long sleep of two thousand 
years, to verify the marvelous story. Now indeed the teacher 
finds it hard work to keep abreast half a dozen young 
workers, when once their enthusiasm is aroused and their am- 
bition excited. 

But, say you, all this is not religion. No, it is but the gate 
to the garden of Eden. Within and beyond stands the tree of 
life; but here no angel guards this entrance with a naming 
sword. In his place, with sweet and gracious mien, behold 
the Son of Man, and He says — Come, come, come. 

Such searchings store the young mind with the best evidences 
of Christianity, no one of which must be suffered to escape un- 
noticed as we progress. Every prophecy, especially concerning 
our Saviour, can be followed in its gradual unfolding from 
Genesis to Malachi, until it reaches the perfect flower in the 
Gospels. Eor this reason the study of the Old Testament in- 
cludes the New, and the Old. They are inseparable as 
cause and effect and a careful training, in this direction alone, 
arms our young people against a host of infidels. Their feet 
are set to walk in the narrow path, and so walking, they soon 
discover that " its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its 
paths are peace." 



LATER PEOSE WORKS 325 

The lessons should be short, pithy, sensible. There should 
be no tiresome lectures, but on the other hand let no Sabbath 
pass without pointing out some practical lesson, and let no 
scholar leave the house without feeling that he, personally, is 
dear to you, his well-being the especial object of your efforts 
and your prayers. Let him learn that he has duties and re- 
sponsibilities which he must accept or refuse, that God loves 
him, and is leading him. 

And so we may go forward feeling constantly our own ig- 
norance and weakness, acknowledging gratefully our Teach- 
er's wisdom and strength, knowing that we shall reap if we 
faint not, for has not our great Helper said that " bye and bye 
we shall come again (though we go out with weeping) in great 
joy bearing with us our precious sheaves ? 

The American Church Times, February 25, 1889. 



GHOSTLY VISITANTS 
De. Henry's Stoby 

It had been a hard day, but to-night the three doctors sat at 
ease. Without, the rain and sleet beat upon the window panes, 
and the savage wind howled about the house; within, the doc- 
tor's office the cheery wood fire glowed and snapped in the great 
open fireplace. Cigars and liquors were on the table and the 
men, lounging in easy chairs, lazily smoked and grew reminis- 
cent. The host was Dr. Scott, tall, lean and dark, with a mas- 
sive jaw and keen dark eyes. He had called in the two others 
in consultation over a difficult case. Dr. Loeb, of Chicago 
and almost of wide-world fame — tall, portly, broad of brow 
and thin of lip, nattily dressed; and Dr. Henry, of South 
Bend, small, alert, and with his reputation yet to make, but 
greatly interested in the leading questions of the day. 

From topic to topic, the conversation had passed until it had 
finally centered upon the incredible happenings in the novels 
of the day, and Dr. Loeb remarked, " I like a good novel, but 
it must appeal to my judgment as likely, or at least possible. 
Such coincidents could never happen in real life. " How 



326 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

can you tell ? " interrupted Dr. Scott. " It is a truth that life 
is made up of stranger occurrences than man's imagination can 
conceive." " Tell Dr. Loeb," suggested Dr. Scott, " of poor 
old Simon's death, Jack; that was surely ghastly enough." 
" What was that ? " asked Loeb, " astral body ? spiritual manifes- 
tation ? or what 1 " " Scarcely that," replied Henry, " but for 
out and out scarey and coincidence, hard to be equalled by any 
story writer." " Let's hear the story." Jack kicked together 
the glowing embers in the fireplace and they shot up a shower 
of sparks which illuminated the faces of the men for a moment 
and then sank to a glowing bed. ISTo other light was in the 
room and in the semi-blackness Jack Henry told this story. 

" Out here, about two miles from this town, is a tumble 
down cottage set back from the state road. An old man named 
Simons had been living alone there for many years. He was 
there when I came here and I never heard of his having friend 
or relative. He raised fine garden truck in his little yard and 
every year grew more thin and haggard and feeble. Last 
September the farmers passing the house did not see any 
smoke rising from the chimney, nor the old man puttering 
about the garden as usual. Finally, one of them went to the 
door and knocked. Getting no response he opened the door 
and found the poor, old fellow in his tumble-down bed, abso- 
lutely dying from neglect. He called on me and told me the 
circumstances. I gathered up some necessary things and went 
out. It was too late to do more than make him comfortable, 
which I did and he died as he had lived, quietly and alone. 
So I found him when I called. I did what I could for the poor 
old body. We country doctors are often undertakers, as well, 
and I laid him out on a cot in the only living room. The front 
door and one window opened from the porch. Back of it was 
the kitchen and a ladder on the wall from this kitchen led to 
the loft above. I am particular about the location of the rooms 
because of what happened afterwards. I closed the door of 
the cottage and drove home, planning what might be done. 
Suddenly I remembered seeing a large black cat which had 
belonged to Simons on the porch and I got it into my head that 
it was not safe to leave that body alone all night. I board at 
the hotel opposite here and passing at the side door, I saw 



LATEE PROSE WORKS 327 

Nelly and Lulie, two of the dining room girls and their sweet- 
hearts sitting on the steps. I went up and told them of poor, 
old Simons' death and asked if any of them would volunteer to 
go out and wake him that night. ' I'm game if you are, Jim/ 
said Lulie, ' after my work is done.' 

" To shorten my story, the four decided to go and later I 
drove them to the cottage. It must have been about nine 
o'clock and a beautiful moonlight night. I went in; found all 
right and advised them to sit on the porch as they could see 
through the window into the room. Lulie was a Catholic and 
she had brought candles which she lighted and placed at the 
head and feet of the corpse. There was a chair we afterwards 
remembered, at the head of the cot. I saw the four comfort- 
ably established on the little porch and went home. 

" The next day Lulie told me this story. She said they were 
sitting there, quietly talking and enjoying the beautiful full 
moon which made it almost as light as day, when Nelly's 
sweetheart, Harry Blake, said ' My uncle lives up the road here 
and he has a fine orchard. I wish I had some of his apples.' 
' How far is it % ' asked Nell. * Somewhere near half a 
mile.' ' Well, why can't we go ? ' asked Jim. ' We can if 
all are willing. The corpse will keep.' l You go, urged 
Lulie. ' I'll stay here. I'm not afraid and it wouldn't be 
right for us all to go.' ' If I had your conscience,' Jim as- 
serted, ' I'd take it behind the ham and kick it.' The young 
people finally trooped off and Lulie watched them as they 
started up the broad, silver moonlight road. She was not 
afraid, but it was uncanny sitting alone there. Even the black 
cat would have been acceptable company. 

" She had been sitting alone for perhaps half an hour when 
she thought she heard a noise — a creaking of steps — a 
muffled footfall, it seemed — and in the house. She glanced 
through the window, the candles were burning bright and all 
was right and she chided herself for cowardice. She wished 
her friends would come and began to grow chilly. Maybe it 
was the cat? No, for here was puss coming up the walk. 
Lulie was getting nervous. She thought she heard a chatter- 
ing as of teeth grated together. Yes, now she was sure of 
that, chatter — chatter — chatter — and the noise came from 



328 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK: 

the room where the dead man lay. For a few moments fear 
held her captive. She was unable to move — even to turn her 
head and glance in through the window. Finally — heroine 
as she was and is — remembering her duty and still hearing 
that awful clicking of teeth, as it seemed — she resolutely 
faced the window and — what she saw there paralyzed her 
with fear. At the coffin head, with the candle light shining 
full upon him, sat an old man, haggard, almost a skeleton, 
with long, thin wisps of hair hanging over his face and clicking 
his terrible teeth together — chattering. He raised his skele- 
ton arms and clasped his long, thin hands above his head, and 
Lulie could see the wild, gleaming eyes and fearful teeth. He 
was risen from the dead. With an inarticulate cry, she 
sprang down the steps and ran into the road, calling to her 
friends whom she saw in the distance returning from their 
raid upon the orchard. As she ran, breathless and terrified 
beyond description, a wagon with two men in it came at speed 
along the road. They stopped her with a question. ' Had 
she seen an old man anywhere around who had wild, gleaming 
eyes and chattered his teeth constantly ? ' He had escaped 
from the asylum and they had tracked him so far. Lulie told 
her story and they went to the cottage. One glance through 
the window showed the maniac, still sitting at the corpse's head 
and chattering those awful teeth. A sudden rush, a brief and 
desperate scuffle and Lulie' s ghost was captured. He had been 
in hiding in the loft and came down, seeing the lights, to pose 
as the dead man, resurrected. That's the story and it's true, 
every word. We buried poor old Simons the next day and the 
cottage has been vacant ever since." 

" That," said Dr. Loeb, " was an extraordinary coincidence." 
" I rather think," said Henry, " it was the old fellow him- 
self reincarnated." Dr. Scott flicked the ashes from his cigar, 
turned up the lights and smiled. 

February 1, 1911. 

Dr. Scott's Story 

" Your's " — said Dr. Scott " was merely a coincidence, singu- 
lar and unusual, no doubt, but there was nothing of the super- 



LATEE PROSE WORKS 329 

natural about it — now I — " He paused, gazed into the slowly 
dying fire and added. " I can tell you an experience of my 
own, for which I have never been able to account. Perhaps you 
may be better read, or understand more of the occult than I do. 
At any rate this is what happened, if you would like to hear it % " 

" Surely, surely." " Let's have it ! " cried both of his listen- 
ers, and the doctor began. 

" Some years ago when I was younger and more foolhardy 
than I am now, I had drifted in among the Cumberland Hills, 
being Maryland born, and was for the time being at the Blue 
Boar, a little Inn lying at the foothills of Iron Mountain. One 
dark and lonesome evening I was lounging in the bar-room, the 
only sitting room the Inn possessed, bored, I must confess, as 
calls had not only been few, but entirely absent, when my at- 
tention was aroused by hearing the impact of a horse's hoofs 
upon the cobble-stone walk outside. Presently the door opened 
and a young man entered. He was very tall, thin and angular, 
but stood with an easy grace that marked him a man of muscle. 
He wore a butternut shirt with red tie, loosely knotted at the 
throat, butternut trousers tucked into long cowhide boots, and 
a slouch hat, and I observed from the sagging of his belt that 
he was well ' heeled.' As he entered, Gus, the inn-keeper, 
glanced up, raised his eyebrows a little, as in surprise, and 
greeted the newcomer, 

"' Howdy, Abner?' 

" i Howdy, Gus,' replied Abner. 

" ' How's the weather ? ' 

" i Comin' on to rain,' replied Abner, in the gentle slow drawl 
of the Southern mountain men. ' Shouldn't wonder ef it 'ud be 
an unfriendly night.' 

" ' Unfriendly ? ' — the inn-keeper laughed. 

" ' I reckon it'll be unfriendly enough. There's a storm 
brewing. Feud on, Abner ? ' 

" ' I reckon,' sententiously replied Abner. 

" ' Anybody dead yet ? ' 

" ' JSTot — yet,' drawled the mountaineer. 

" i Come and have a drink ? ' 

" ( Not to-night. I come for a doctor that I heared was here. 
Man hurt up our way.' He turned a penetrating dark gray 
eye upon me. ' I reckon you're him.' 



330 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" ' I reckon I am,' I returned with a smile. ' What do you 
want ? ' 

" * I want you to come with me, and no time's to be lost.' 

" I turned an enquiring glance at the inn-keeper. ' Is the 
man square ? ' I asked, and he replied, 6 Abner's all right. He's 
safe enough.' 

" i Stranger,' drawled the young man called Abner, in the 
softest of voices, c I'm square ; what I says I'll do, and I'll bring 
you back safe, but you must come. The feud's on, but I'll say 
this, ~No Bascom, nor Howlitt, ever yet hurt the stranger within 
their gates.' 

" Somehow that quotation decided me. I didn't relish going 
out that dark night in those mountain passes with a stranger, 
and that stranger a feudist, but I had also a good deal of an idea 
of noblesse oblige and, so far, had never refused a call. I arose, 
gathered up my belongings, medicine, bag and rain coat and 
announced my readiness. ' I'll go,' said I, i but how ? ' 

" i There's a mewel outside waiting fur you, sir,' and I found 
the ' mewel ' all right standing at the door. 

" ' What if I had refused to go , on this wild goose chase ? ' 
I asked. 

" Abner smiled his slow and tender smile. ' I've a right per- 
suasive way with me,' said he, and as I glanced at his well- 
filled belt, I thought he had. 

" We had been in the saddle, Abner in the lead, but half an 
hour, when the storm which had been threatening all day broke. 
Thunders pealed and boomed and resounded, making a contin- 
uous roaring. Lightnings flashed and tore and zigzagged from 
cloud to cloud, lighting up our rugged pathway. The rain 
came down in torrents, and we were soon drenched to the skin, 
but our faithful beasts plodded stolidly forward. On either 
side of us rose the mountains, densely wooded with sombre pine 
and cedar, and little torrents of water rushed and darted down 
their sides. It was pitch dark, excepting for the lightning 
flashes and a small lantern carried by Abner. Up and up and 
ever up we climbed through that awful gulch. Once Abner 
paused and said over his shoulder to me, ' This is Dead Man's 
Gulch and all the devils in hell are abroad tonight.' 

" ' Do you believe that devils or anybody else for that matter 
can come back ? ' I questioned. 



LATEK PEOSE WOEKS 331 

" i The mounting people hain't much book l'arnin' but they 
know a lot that other folks don't know, and thej know that 
when they're called on a night like this, they do come back.' 
Abner spoke in an awed tone and then silently resumed his way. 

" On and on again, until I began to wish myself safely back 
in the Blue Boar. At last we turned from the main road into 
a bridle path and soon came to a place where even this path 
abruptly terminated. Abner dropped from his mule and I did 
the same. He tethered both beasts to the branch of a tree that 
loomed up in the light of his lantern, and began pushing aside 
some bushes that intercepted one way. A small rude opening 
stood revealed. 

" ' An old still,' explained Abner, ' not used now. Don't you 
be afraid, stranger, I give you my word I'll see you safe home 
again and no Bascom ever broke his word, dead or alive.' 

" Through the little door he passed into a cave where coils 
of pipes, a rusty boiler and sundry other objects proclaimed its 
original use. There was no sign of occupancy now. At the 
far end, by the lantern light, I saw a rude door. Abner paused 
here and faced me. 

, " ' I reckon, stranger,' he drawled, i it's best that I tell you 
a few things before we go in there. The Bascoms and How- 
litts have been at feud for many years. I don't rightly know 
how it started, nor how long it has been goin' on. Some say 
that Bascoms' pigs got into Howlitts' corn ' (he pronounced it 
cohn) c or maybe the Howlitts' pigs got into the Bascoms' corn. 
I don't know, but I was born a Bascom and stood by my family, 
and they, bein' bohn Howlitts, stand by them. Between us, we 
have had off and on right pretty killings. My dad was one of 
eight boys and he had eight sons and one little gurl, Loretty, 
and that little gurl was Dad's very life, and there wasn't one 
of us but 'ud a died fur her any time. She was that purty, 
with her big blue eyes and head shining like the sun was on it, 
and that loving, seems like she never saw anything that warn't 
all good and sweet. Well, mother was hit by a bullet and died. 
I don't think 'twas meant for her, and Dad's brothers all went 
one after another and I'll tell you, stranger ' — here his voice 
rang out — ' sl Howlitt bit the dust for every one of them, and 
we watched Loretty every day. Alius some of us around. One 



332 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

day Dad was out huntin' and they got him. Jared and I found 
him before he died, and he made us swear to take care of Loretty. 
' Boys/ he said, ' I'll know if harm comes to Loretty, and I'll 
come back and git her. All the devils in hell, nor all the saints 
in heaven can't stop me if Loretty needs me.' And we swore, 
and, stranger, we done all we could, but yesterday the little gurl 
was sittin' in the sun playin' with her pup and the sun was 
shinin' on that purty head of hers — and — well, it made a 
mark. She's hit, but she ain't dead, and I've brung you up 
here to help her.' 

" He led the way into an inner room through the small door. 
Some effort had been made to make it habitable, a bear rug on 
the floor, a couple of rude chairs, a table, and on the bed tossed 
a girl. She seemed scarcely more than a child. Her face was 
faintly flushed like a wild rose. Her plentiful hair fell like a 
shower of gold over the pillow, and her big blue eyes, unnatu- 
rally bright, looked appealingly into mine. Never have I seen 
a sweeter face. 

" i My child,' I began gently, i let us see where you are hurt ? ' 

" A very slight examination showed me that nothing could be 
done to save her. She seemed not to suffer and her mind wan- 
dered. She smiled upon Abner and knew him. 

" ' Bring Jared and Tom. They're all that's left now — Dad 
wants the boys here.' 

" From somewhere, two other men, very like Abner, appeared, 
and the three sons stood sorrowfully looking down upon that 
little sister. 

" ' They're here, Dad,' she smiled as if in her father's face, 
' and they all took care of me. I'm to answer for 'em and 
they're all so dear, so dear, but, Dad, Loretty's so tired, take me 
in your two strong arms. I want to go to sleep. Dad, Dad, 
take Loretty ! ' 

" It was the desolate, heartbroken cry of a child, and, boys, 
I want to tell you this — scarcely had that thrilling call rang 
out than from somewhere — I don't know where, or how — 
arose the tall gaunt figure of an old mountaineer, taller by a 
head than any of his three sons. His hair was grizzled and 
hung about his neck, his eyes were deeply sunken, but gleamed 
under his bushy eyebrows with unquenchable fire, and he stood 



LATEK PEOSE WOEKS 333 

by that bed and held out his arms. ' Loretty ! ' he cried. 
i Loretty ! ' and that dying child rose from her pillow and threw 
herself with a sob of joy into the waiting arms. He stood there 
for the space of a second among his sons, his little daughter 
clasped close to his breast, her bright hair falling like a cloak 
over his arms. I saw it, and the hoys saw it, and then — the 
vision was gone. 

" Abner spoke. e Dad never broke his word yet, living nor 
dead. He's come back and took her.' 

" Upon the pillow, with a wonderful smile upon her face, 
slept the child. We stood in silence looking upon the little 
form. The air was surcharged with some spiritual essence. 
We all felt it, and it was only natural that Jared, rude moun- 
taineer though he was, should raise his hands and say, ' Let us 
pray. God of the mountains and of men ! We thank you for 
all your gifts and for this greatest one, that you have let Dad 
come back for Loretty and that she is safe with you. Amen ! ' 

" Silently we passed out of the cave ; only Jared remained. 
The rain had ceased and the first faint glint of daylight shone 
in the East. I mounted my mule and, led by Abner, wound 
my way back to the Blue Boar. I might have thought the 
night's happenings only a dream, but the next day I found a 
splendid bear rug lying at my door." 

Henry arose and Dr. Loeb followed suit. " Time I was 
turning in, doctor," he said. 

" I haven't a word to say." 

" Nor I," chimed in Dr. Loeb, " only, Jack, don't you ever 
ask me to take any of your mountain cases, for I won't. I can 
fight them this side pretty well, but don't want any boomerangs 
for mine. Good night." 



JAMIE'S TEAMP 

Chapter I 

Janie turned sharply around with the pan of bread in her 
hands. She thought that she heard a step at the kitchen door. 
She Was quite right. A man stood there; dirty; ragged; un- 
kempt ; with great black eyes that somehow seemed to burn, and 



334 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

long neglected hair. He was unmistakably a tramp and was de- 
manding his breakfast. " In a minute," said Janie in her brisk 
business tone — " as soon as the bread is in the oven." The 
bread was safely deposited, the oven door closed, and Janie 
turned to face her uninvited guest. " You'd best sit down," 
she said, " and I'll get you a bite." He came in and sat down. 
What a contrast he presented to the girl standing beside him — 
he a young man not over twenty-one years of age, with a face 
seamed and scarred by the vicious life which he had evidently 
been leading, — she not more than seventeen years old, with a 
face pure, healthy, bright and full of energy and life : unmarred 
by crime, unacquainted with idleness. She brought him some 
corn bread and bacon and poured out some coffee from the boiler 
which still stood upon the stove. 

Living, as she did, in the far West, she had learned early 
to detect and fear any member of the great army of tramps which 
not unfrequently found their way to her door, and to-day she 
had an especial reason for caution. Keeping a sharp look out 
upon the black-eyed fellow regaling himself on her bread and 
bacon, she yet moved briskly to and fro; closing the door that 
led to her mother's room — where that poor lady was sick; 
quietly pocketing a revolver which was never far from her 
sight, and when her visitor pushed his empty plate from him 
and rose from his chair, she faced him, devoutly wishing that 
he would go. He did nothing of the kind. Suddenly his heavy 
hand was laid upon her shoulder, and his quick stern voice — 
how loud it seemed to her frightened ears — said, 

" Now be quiet, I'll have no noise. You've money in the 
house, get it." 

Quick as a flash Janie twisted herself from under his hand, 
and equally as quick the tramp sprang towards her, but paused 
instantly, for he found himself looking into the mouth of a 
revolver. 

" Don't stir," said Janie in a low but perfectly audible tone, 
" or you are a dead man — now march." 

For an instant they faced each other, the unarmed tramp with 
his black and dogged face, the heroic girl with her flaming eyes. 
There was something in her brave and fearless bearing that 
awed him more if possible than the appearance of that ugly 



LATEK PEOSE WORKS 335 

little weapon which he was well assured would be used as 
fearlessly as it was presented. 

" By jove," he ejaculated " you are game, I guess I'll go ! " 

" I guess you will," she retorted with unflinching eyes. 
" Start ! Start, I say." 

She backed him out of the kitchen, down the little path to 
the broken gate, out into the broader road that passed the 
shanty — down that, step by step, to the cross roads, never 
once lowering her weapon from its first position — never once 
turning her eyes from the face of her foe. At the cross roads 
she paused. 

" Now go straight on. If you turn once within shooting dis- 
tance I'll shoot you." 

She scanned his well-knit youthful frame, the young face 
which might have been so manly, and her eyes softened with a 
woman's pity. " Oh ! " she cried, " You are such a young man 
to be so wicked. If you have a mother or ever had — how 
she would grieve over this day's work. Does she know that you 
are a robber and a thief ? " 

Janie backed away from him leaving him standing in the 
road, and he turned and walked slowly onward, carrying with 
him that vision of a white determined face, those flaming eyes, 
softened with an almost divine compassion, and that clear 
voice ringing in his ears — " A robber and a thief " — It had 
come to that at last. He was a robber and a thief and — God 
help her — he had <a mother. He remembered her now, though 
he so seldom thought of her, and the recollection troubled 
him. 

" I'll be even with her yet," he muttered. " If I'd a had 
a shooter to-day, but she had the drop on me." 

With his thoughts for company he trudged on to the nearest 
village, and Janie as soon as he was out of sight — heroic no 
longer, turned and ran — ran until she reached her own little 
kitchen where she sank, trembling and breathless, into the 
nearest chair. She laid her head on the table and burst out 
crying, not loud, but suppressed and violent, for even in her 
excitement she remembered the sick mother. After the first 
paroxysm was over she glanced at her revolver and began to 
laugh — laughed as hysterically as she had cried before. 



336 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" It's well he did not know it wasn't loaded, but I'll not risk 
that again. It will be loaded next time," said she, and as 
soon as her trembling limbs would support her, the little 
weapon, which had stood her friend so surely was properly 
cleaned, loaded and deposited in her pocket for future occasions. 
Then like the heroic little girl that she was, Janie went quietly 
about her work, first bolting the kitchen door. She had long 
been used to carrying the family burdens and now never dreamed 
of telling her mother of the scare that she had had. The pre- 
ceding Spring her father had located this quarter-section, built 
the shanty, and placed his family therein to " prove " it while 
he himself wandered about at his own sweet will, speculating a 
little, working still less, and growing every day he lived, more 
of a burden upon his family. He was a man of broken fortunes, 
or rather of no fortune at all; had no especial vices and still 
fewer virtues ; was a " rolling stone " from his boyhood, never 
contented, but either on the wing constantly or preparing to flit. 
Now that his broken-down wife and family were in a house of 
their own, as he often grandiloquently informed them, he con- 
sidered that he had done well by them and upon Janie and her 
two little brothers the support of the family mainly depended. 
A week or two before my story opens, he had more by accident 
than management, succeeded in clearing five hundred dollars in 
cattle sales and of course, boasted loudly of the same at every 
saloon which he visited. He had brought it home ostentatiously 
and had not as yet, spent or removed it, hence the tramp's cer- 
tainty of getting the money, knowing that its owner was absent 
and that a seventeen year old girl was its only protector. That 
money, or what pari of it she might be able to get, represented 
to Janie a thousand comforts, and was to be protected with her 
life if necessary. It meant luxury and warmth and medicine 
for the sick mother; shoes and clothes, and perhaps a term's 
schooling for Jock and Joe, and it meant a few books for her- 
self — all that Janie could imagine of happiness for the next 
twelve months was involved in the safe keeping of that money. 

Her father had intrusted it to her when he left home and 
said, " Now my girl, keep it safe and I'll divide with you." 

As for the tramp he trudged on to the nearest village, a 
small mining town, Blucher by name, chiefly remarkable for 



LATEK PBOSE WOKKS 337 

its saloons and billiard tables, and as he journeyed and revolved 
in his mind the day's defeat he grew more ashamed and abashed 
— he a great strong fellow to be cheated and driven off by a 
chit of a girl. " Why didn't I choke her," he thought. " I 
could as easy as not," but the idea was instantly discarded. 
He was yet young in crime and had never offered an indignity 
to a woman. Without stopping to analyze his feelings, he was 
always careful to avoid that. 

The pure and gentle face of his mother was unconsciously 
his guardian angel still, for was not she a woman, and for her 
sake all women were sacred. Continually that clear and vibrant 
voice sounded in his unwilling ears as he walked, keeping time 
with his steps " A robber and a thief ! " A brisk four miles 
walk in the keen frosty air brought him to an outlying shanty 
distinguished by the name of the Miner's Paradise. A rusty 
old sign swung on its creaking hinges bearing aloft the carica- 
ture of our first mother, holding in her hand — not the apple 
which wrought such misery to all mankind, but a mug of 
foaming Lager Beer, fit rival of the apple since it too is the 
certain harbinger of death, death to all happiness, and virtue, 
death of body and of soul. 

To this paradise our tramp was evidently no stranger for 
he passed through the bar-room and into an inner room, with 
the familiarity of old acquaintanceship. A brisk fire was 
burning cheerily in the open grate, and three or four men sat 
at a table each with their mug of beer, and a handful of dirty 
cards. They greeted the newcomer with goodnatured cordial- 
ity. 

" Hello, Jim Langley, come along, man, and take a hand 
and a glass." Just as cordially he replied, accepting the of- 
fered seat, cards and glass and in a few moments was ap- 
parently as care free and comfortable as any one of his happy- 
go-lucky friends. They played, drank and quarreled, sang 
songs and told stories, and Jim Langley was the brightest, 
loudest and gayest of the party, but ever and anon strive as he 
would to shut it out — above song and story and clatter, his 
newly awakened conscience heard that clear contemptuous and 
yet half-pitying voice, repeating over and over, " A robber and 
a thief " until in despair he threw up his hand and crept up- 



338 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

stairs to what lie dignified by the name of his room. It was 
in reality a small uncleanly corner formed by the slanting 
roof, boasting one little window so dirty that the panes were 
opaque, but it was for the present Jim Langley's home. Here 
he could be alone, and through his long years of wandering 
this one old habit had clung to him — a love of some quiet 
spot, in which he could be free from the intrusion of even his 
chosen companions. Now he threw himself upon the untidy 
bed, but those sorrowful indignant eyes still looked into his, that 
indignant young voice still rang in his ear. With an oath he 
sprang up, went down-stairs again and joined his companions. 
For him solitude had lost its charms. A girl's hand had pushed 
ajar the gates of memory, a girl's voice had awakened his slum- 
bering conscience, and for the first time in all his wanderings, 
Jim Langley hated being alone. 

A few evenings later Janie was gathering her evening's supply 
of kindlings outside the kitchen door. Jock and Joe sat in- 
side playing at jack-straws and were so engaged in their game 
that they could not be expected to remember the kindlings. It 
was growing dusky in the early November evening and with 
some little nervousness over the strange shadows that were be- 
ginning to people every nook and corner of the wood yard, Janie 
worked fast. Already her apron was filled, and holding it 
in one hand, she stooped to gather two or three other sticks 
to complete the load, when suddenly her head was bent forward 
upon her bosom, there was an ominous " snip, snip " and her 
head was released from the detaining hand. What was it? 
What had happened to her ? She sprang to her feet, dazed and 
stupefied, letting the kindling fall. She had heard no step, 
seen no one, and yet something had happened, what? She 
put her hand to her head and then she understood. Her long 
and beautiful hair was gone. That heavy wavy braid reaching 
far below her waist of which her mother was so proud, had been 
cut off close to her head. Janie was no heroine now, she burst 
into very girlish tears land ran into the house as fast as pos- 
sible. 

" It's that tramp I know it is," she sobbed ; " but he'll not 
get away, I'll find him yet." 

She called Jock and Joe. They lighted the lantern and 



LATER PROSE WORKS 339 

searched every cranny of the piled-up wood, every corner about 
house and fence; but the search was unavailing for the thief 
had occupied the time in which she was preparing for his cap- 
ture to get beyond any chance of capture. Tired at length 
Janie gave up the search, and went into the shanty bemoaning 
her loss. Jock and Joe in big-eyed wonder had already pre- 
ceded her, and she found her mother with a flushed face anx- 
iously awaiting her. Janie ran to her, iand laid her shorn 
head upon her mother's pillow sobbing aloud, " Oh mother, 
mother, I wish father was home or I wish he was worth anything 
when he is at home. I am so tired, mother, I wish I was dead ; 
that dreadful tramp he was here the other day and wanted 
the money. I drove him off with the revolver and he swore 
he'd be even with me. He's cut off my hair, and oh mother, 
mother, I don't mind the hair, it'll grow again, but I don't dare 
think what he'll do next." 

Gently, gently, to and fro, over the bent and rebellious head, 
passed the mother's thin hand ; gently, gently, until Janie ceased 
to sob and grew more quiet and then her mother's voice, so 
weak and tremulous, but calm and brave, soothed her child as 
no other touch or voice could do. 

" Never mind my daughter, don't carry a three days' burden, 
yesterdays, to-day's and to-morrow's. Lying here my dear, 
I am learning to let the Lord carry my burdens. They grew too 
heavy for me. Try, darling, to let him carry yours. Why did 
you not tell me of the money? Your father has taken it all 
with him." 

" Yes," said Janie, " I am sorry now I did not let the tramp 
have it. He might 'as well for all the good it is going to do us. 
Mother when I see you in need of everything, and the boys 
so ragged and dirty, and the baby, and the house, and, and 
everything so miserable," concluded Janie desperately, " I hate 
father." 

" Oh, my girl, try and be patient. Times will be better soon 
and father will be different." 

Paler grew the poor sick face, more tremulous the lips, and 
the tears began to course down the thin cheeks. Janie saw 
it all, and her brave little heart lifted its burden again. 

" Well," she said, " I can be patient and," — with a smile — 



340 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" and I wonder what that tramp will do with all that hair. 
Sell it likely. No, he won't for I will haunt him. That's my 
hair and much comfort may it do him. After all it is much 
nicer off, my head feels quite light. If only it was Spring 
instead of fall I'd like it first-rate, but never mind, mother 
dear, we will make the best of it. Come, Jock and Joe, it's bed 
time. Come, baby let us count the ten little pigs." She took 
the two year old baby on her lap, put upon it its shabby 
" nightie " held it to kiss mama; and sitting in the one rickety 
rocker, sang him to sleep, and as she rocked and sang to the baby 
her own heart ceased its rapid beating, her own soul caught 
something of the calm of evening, and the quiet peacefulness 
upon the sleeping face of the child was reflected in her own. 
Her mother, watching her, saw the change and said no word. 
She knew that a hand stronger than her own was stretched out 
to her child and would help her far better than she. For her 
the turmoil of life was ended. She stood as it were, upon the 
border land between life and death, and had reached that point 
when life, its cares and griefs, had no more power over her, 
but this little daughter upon whose young and slender shoulders, 
must needs fall all the cares and dangers of this western home, 
how fervently she prayed for her. Look which way she would 
she could see no hope for her except in that. She had leaned 
upon the father and found him a broken reed. She had tried 
to battle with circumstances, and now lay a stranded vessel 
upon the shore. She could only fold her hands and pray. 

Janie laid the sleeping baby beside its mother, straightened 
up the boys' shake-down, and with more determination than 
tenderness induced those young men to stop squabbling long 
enough to go to bed, made her mother comfortable for the night 
and locked up the house. Then she took pen, ink and paper and 
sat down, as she said to remind her father that they still lived, 
and this is what she wrote: 

" Dear Father, — 

" When you came home I told you of the tramp and you did 
not say anything, only took the money and the tramp might as 
well have had it for all the good it is going to do us. Now he has 
come again and cut off my hair. Perhaps he will get my head 



LATEK PEOSE WOKKS 341 

next visit and then what will become of mother, and the young 
ones? Jock and Joe ought to go to school; and I want some 
of that money to send them. Mother ought to have a Doctor 
and must have one. She grows weaker every day, and I am just 
scared to death with these tramps coming around. Dear Fa- 
ther, come home before you spend your money and take care of 
mother and the children. I don't think you ought to leave us 
to be taken off in bits by every tramp that comes this way, and 
I think you ought to see to the boys. They are so ragged and 
dirty, and fight so that they will soon be tramps themselves, 
even little Charlie can say some bad words. Oh, Father, come 
home and help me find that tramp that has got my hair. 

" Your aff. daughter, 
" Janie Ryan Le Derle. 

Chapter II 

In the meantime Jim Langley made short work of the road 
that stretched between the little shanty of Le Derle' s and the 
Miner's Paradise. He had no time to think or regret his 
evening's work for his experience with the girl whose head he 
had so ruthlessly shorn, had taught him that she was fully 
capable of following him into the village itself if need be, to 
obtain her own. His theft of the hair had been an impulse. 
He was hanging about the cabin to see some means of getting 
even with Janie, when her bent and busy figure in the fast 
fading light caught his attention. A ray from the setting sun 
struck athwart her long and shining hair and in a moment he 
saw his revenge. It was but the work of a minute to secure his 
prize and disappear ; and now in his breast pocket lay that long 
and glossy braid. The keen and frosty air pierced his thin 
summer clothing, but he pushed on breathlessly. " That hair 
will net me quite a sum," he thought. " I guess I am even with 
that girl now. I never saw hair so long and shiny, I'll sell it 
in Denver, some of those hair fellows will pay me well." 
" Even with the girl ! " As the thought shaped itself he knew 
it was not true, for a ghost of a voice sprang into being and " A 
robber and a thief," " a robber and a thief," kept time to his 
hurried strides until he hailed with delight the tavern door gaily 



342 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

decked with lights. A brisk fire was burning in the open fire- 
place of the bar-room and some of his boon companions were 
already there laughing and telling stories, but not yet settled 
to their evening's amusements. He pushed his way to the fire, 
beating his cold hands together, and trying to answer jest with 
jest, but it was hard work. He was tired, he was cold and 
heavy-hearted. That braid of hair seemed to weigh him down. 
He accepted a drink when somebody stood to treat, he took up 
the dirty and greasy cards and won or lost with equal indif- 
ference. Jest and story, and game, the usual entertainment of 
his life, fell flatly to-night, and long before the riotous and 
half-drunken crowd thought of separating he pushed back his 
chair and climbed the ladder that led to his little den. Now 
he lighted his candle and pipe, and sat down to have a quiet 
smoke. 

A yellow-colored volume lay upon the old store box that 
served him as a table. This he undertook to read, but soon 
threw it down and drew off his dilapidated boots. Another at- 
tempt at the story; another failure, his attention wavered and 
the book was cast aside. Thought was too busy. He smoked 
his pipe out silently, then drew from his pocket the braid of 
hair and laid it on his knee. " It'll net me thirty dollars," 
was his first thought. " How mad that girl must be," was his 
second. Almost unconsciously he passed, his hand along its 
shining, silky length. That hand that had so ruthlessly severed 
it from its young owner's head, now tenderly, gently, again and 
again, passed adown the beautiful glossy ripples, and one by 
one great bitter tears gathered in Jim's eyes and rolled un- 
checked down his bronzed cheeks. " It's like mother's," he 
thought, and again he was a bright and innocent boy standing 
by his mother's chair combing out her lovely hair; once again 
he saw her gentle face and felt her tender kisses; once again 
he was at home. How many years since he had even thought 
of it, or her. " I expect her hair is gray now," he muttered, 
" most likely thin, and Bob quite a boy. Likely's not he's cut 
and run too, and the little one Dot she'd nice hair too. She 
must be quite a girl by this time. She must be, why I declare 
as large as that girl that owned this hair. I'd like to see them 
all to-night, and they would like to see me, me," his face flushed 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 343 

now, " ragged, dirty and not a cent in my pocket, and with it all 
— a robber and a thief." Still silently passed the hand adown 
the braid, silently rose and fell the unchecked tears, and by and 
by arose the cry of his heart and it would not be silenced. " I 
want to see Mother, and Bob and Dot, and Mother would not 
mind if I was the worst wretch unhung, mother is always 
Mother." Like a strain of forgotten music came to mind a verse 
that he had learned at his mother's knee in the long ago, " Come 
unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give 
you rest." That's like mother, she won't care. She'll always 
rest me no matter how bad I am." That final thought had com- 
fort in it. " I'll go home to-morrow, I'll sell the hair to get 
some money." He lifted it and the light gleamed goldenly 
adown its beautiful length. " Sell it, no," he cried aloud, " I'll 
sell my shirt first, it's made me think of Mother and if I get 
there I'll call it blessed." He tore the yellow cover from his 
discarded book, carefully wrapped his treasure therein and put 
it into his pocket; then threw himself upon his bed, but not to 
sleep. Thought, memory, conscience and remorse, >a dreadful 
throng, kept him company and would not be thrust out. He 
saw himself again a head-strong boy, his widowed mother's only 
support, he heard again her gentle tones, and saw again the 
faces of his little brother and sister, and here even in the dark- 
ness his eyes flashed, he recalled that smooth tongued, plausible 
villain whom he instinctively hated, and who after many a stormy 
scene between himself and his mother, became his step-father. 
Then there was war to the knife, and one dreadful night twelve 
years before, the end came of his home life. His step-father 
had been especially irritating, and he himself especially ir- 
ritable. They had hard words, and then, even yet Jim recalled 
it with a shudder, he was tied up and whipped, whipped like 
a dog by that man, then untied and ordered off to bed with a 
final kick. To bed with his blood boiling and every nerve 
in his body tingling from anger and disgrace ; to bed to be lashed 
again to-morrow perhaps — never, never ! With steady hands 
he gathered his little stock of clothing and smaller stock of 
money and stole softly from the house. His mother he knew was 
locked in her room lest she would interfere with the punishment 
of her boy. And so he had gone forth, he Frank Eyan, and as 



B44 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

lie went he resolved that even his name, his father's unstained 
name, should also be left, and from that time he was known as 
Jim Langley. To-night tossing upon his restless bed he asked 
himself for the first time if it was well to leave that gentle deli- 
cate woman, and those little children to the care of that brute ; 
to-night he acknowledged himself not alone a robber and a 
thief, but a coward as well, and his resolve to go home grew 
stronger and stronger. At the first faint gleam of the morning 
sun through the little dirty panes of glass, Frank was up, and 
went downstairs. Time was, when being penniless, he would 
have quietly let himself out of the door and gone on a tramp, 
but not this morning. Last night's thoughts and last night's vi- 
sions were yet with him, so he waited until the landlord ap- 
peared and offered his services for his breakfast. It was no 
new thing for Frank to make himself generally useful wherever 
he happened to be, and now he fell to work with a will ; swept the 
bar-room, washed the glasses, cleaned the spittoons and made 
the fire. Jack Hayes the landlord watched him in silence a 
while then added, 

"What's up, lad?" 

" I'm going home, Jack," answered Frank. 

" Home, lad it is a strange word for such as you. I didn't 
think that you had a home." 

" Well I had as good a home as a boy ever had, as good a 
mother and a little brother and sister, and in that home I never 
knew want, or heard a harsh word." 

Jack had his elbow on the counter, rested his face in the cup 
of his hand and contemplated Frank. 

" You'd a mother? " he asked, " and a good one and you left 
her, and the kids, yer father mabbee." 

" Father was dead." 

" Dead ! " ejaculated Jack, " and you shipped the good mother 
and the kids to do for theirselves. Lad, I did not think it of 
you." 

" I had a step-father," said Frank sullenly, " and he whipped 
me and I left that same night, twelve years ago, and I have not 
seen any of them since." 

" And you left your mother," repeated Jack meditatively, 
" to fish for herself, for one lickin'. Now, look here, my lad. 



LATEK PKOSE WOKKS 345 

I ain't good and don't pretend to be. I didn't come of no good 
family, but growed up in Kag Alley anyhow. I'd a mother, 
and when she wasn't in liquor she was good to me, but she was 
mostly in liquor, and at them times I'm bound to say she was 
beastly. I used to lay down nights oftener hungry and cold and 
sore from the beatings I'd had than not, and my mother (I 
never had a father as I know of), she was a poor creature and 
couldn't let rum alone, so she went down, down, until she 
couldn't get lower, and I stuck by her to the last, 'cause you see 
that she was all that ever loved me and all I had to love. But 
you, Jim, I'm ashamed of you. If so be's you have such a 
mother as you say, how'll she like to see you coming home ragged 
and dirty without a cent to bless yerself with ? " Here Jack 
gave a comprehensive glance at Jim's old summer coat, out at 
the elbows, ragged pants, dilapidated boots, and even the faded 
and worn hat did not escape him. " And after you leavin' as 
you did." 

" Mother will always be glad to see me no matter how ragged 
or dirty or bad I am," was the reply, given with conviction. 

" Then," said Jack solemnly, " go ; if so be's that there's 
such a woman as that on earth, go right along and don't you 
ever come back to such as us. She'll maybe save you, and I 
like you too well to ever want to see you again." 

With this rough benediction in his ears Frank set out on 
foot for his far eastern home. He enquired the distance from 
town to town, and generally following the railroad track made 
fifteen or twenty miles a day, stopping occasionally to do a 
little job for a meal, or earn a few pennies with which to buy 
bread. Occasionally by hanging around the stations and doing 
a few chores he secured a free ride in the baggage car from one 
point to another. Occasionally, too, a detention from bad 
weather occurred, and all such hours Frank utilized by earning 
what he could at anything which he could find to do. With 
what delight he reckoned the miles traversed at the close of each 
day! Thoughts of home grew and grew, until they occupied 
his whole attention. Many times, when resting under some 
friendly tree or fence corner, had he taken the braid of hair 
from his pocket and caressed it like a living thing. " It's so like 
mother's/' he would say, " and it makes me want more and more 



346 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

to get home. Some way I feel that mother needs me and that 
I must get there as soon as I can." 

Tired with the thought he would spring up and resume his 
journey. When he reached Kansas City, tired, cold and hun- 
gry, he could have shouted for joy. He had advanced slowly 
in spite of his earnest efforts, and it was already the last week 
of November. The days were growing colder and shorter, and 
he suffered from insufficient clothing and food; but still he 
pushed on doggedly and courageously. 

After leaving Kansas City, still following the line of the 
railway, he walked with great difficulty. It was a chilly, dis- 
agreeable day. Piercing winds seemed to spring up at every 
corner, and like the darts of the wicked, except that they were 
not fiery, wounded him through every rent in his garments. 
He had had nothing to eat since the morning meal earned in 
the depot, and now was devoutly wishing that he might see his 
way to a supper and shelter for the night. The sun was al- 
ready set and night was fast coming on. He remembered the 
little town of Chester must be situated just about here. It 
surely ought to be near, and a river must be crossed before 
reaching it. 

A sudden turn in the road brought him face to face with both 
river and bridge. The latter was built on trestle-work with a 
draw in the middle, through which boats might pass. Frank 
stepped carefully along the ties, looking down into the chasm 
through which flowed the rapid river, seething and foaming in 
its rocky bed. His eyes followed the line of the bridge and as 
he looked he stood still, looked and looked again. ~No lights 
were on the bridge, and the draw was open. His heart sank. 
His feet refused to stir ; for already, in the distance, his quick 
ear caught the distant rumble of the Night Express. What 
should he do? It was coming, coming to certain destruction 
unless he could stop it. But how ? Frank was no longer cold 
or tired, his blood ran like fire in his veins. He felt in his 
pocket for a match with the instinctive motive that he must 
have a light, and found one, only one, but from his lips arose a 
devout " Thank God " for that one. In its tiny flame lay the 
safety of the train. He tore off his old cotton coat, that gar- 
ment in which he had shivered all that day, and which he had 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 347 

frequently anathematized. Now he was ready to bless it for 
being what it was, old and cotton. This he wrapped around his 
stick. Then he struck his one match, guarding the tremulous 
flame from the air until it caught and flashed into yellow light. 

Nearer and nearer came the fated train! Would he be in 
time ? Could he save them yet ? He thrust his match into the 
frayed edges of his coat. It caught, flickered, flamed up. 
With a cry of joy Frank dashed back along the way he had so 
lately come, faster and faster, as he heard the breath of the iron 
monster rushing along. A moment and he is around the curve, 
his flaming torch in his hand, and the engine is almost upon 
him. A cry from Frank, whistles; bells; ringing; brakes re- 
versed so rapidly that the whole train rocks; steam shut off; 
and just as Frank's torch flames up so vividly and dies out into 
a mass of reddened embers clinging to his cane, the engine stops 
and Frank is within a foot of the cow-catcher. 

" What's up % " shouts the engineer, but poor Frank cannot 
speak. His ghastly face gleams in the lantern's light. He can 
only point backward over the way that he has come. Eeady 
hands draw him into a car. Men with lanterns run forward to 
ascertain the trouble, and then they see the open draw, the 
missing lights, and far, far below they hear the angry rushing of 
the hungry river over its rocky bed. Then they know that some 
miscreant has decreed the destruction of the train, and they 
also know that three hundred people owe their lives and safety 
to the courage of a tramp. 

It has been said many times that mankind is proverbially 
ungrateful. Frank did not find them so that chill November 
night, when he was unceremoniously hauled into the car, hat- 
less, coatless, hungry and cold. Food and drink were forced 
upon him. An old gentleman, double Frank's size, tore off his 
great coat and buttoned it about the boy. A second took his 
hat, black and shiny, from the rack and jammed it upon his 
head. It was too large and was only prevented from utterly 
extinguishing him by the size of his ears. Frank caught a 
glimpse of himself in one of the panel mirrors, and having a 
keen sense of the absurd he burst into a hearty laugh. Those 
who had gathered around him joined in, and the owner of the 
hat snatched it from his head. 



348 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

"I'll line it for you/' he cried. " Fellow travellers ! This 
hat is too big for the boy that has saved all your lives this night. 
Who'll help to save his ? " 

" I," responded a grave old Quaker, carefully abstracting a 
ten-dollar bill from a drab leather pocketbook. " And I, and I, 
and I," were the hearty responses, and when the hat reached its 
new owner it was so well lined that there was no room for his 
head. He gratefully accepted this tribute to his bravery; re- 
turned the fat man's coat, and was immediately supplied with 
another and a better fit. A soft woolen cap also appeared, and 
the owner of the stovepipe, after emptying its content into 
his own purse, and handing it to Frank, replaced his hat in the 
rack. 

" I did not want a reward," protested Frank, but the old 
Quaker observed, " Thee had best ; that is thine own," and a 
young fellow back of him said, " Don't be a muff ; there's not 
less'n three hundred dollars there," and the conductor observed, 
smiling, " Put it up, man ; here's a free ride to Chicago for my 
share. We might have been at the bottom of the river but for 
you." 

The draw was carefully closed, lights readjusted, and the 
rescued train proceeded cautiously upon its way. 

Frank settled himself for a quiet nap in his seat, but was soon 
roused by the young fellow back of him leaving his place and 
taking the vacant one by Frank. " Excuse me," said he, " but 
I want to hear how you did it ; a deuced plucky thing for a cad 
like you to do. Give me the story just as it happened, won't 
you?" 

" There's little of a story about it," replied Frank. " I saw 
the draw open and I tore off my coat and set it on fire and 
stopped the train." 

" Well, I'm proud to know you ; my name's Green. What's 
yours ? " 

For the first time in years Frank hesitated in giving his name. 
Heretofore he had been glad to cover his life with an assumed 
one, but now when he was going home to his mother and had 
done a worthy deed he felt that he should resume his own name, 
so he said, " My name is Frank Eyan." 

After that, the young man Green became very entertaining 



LATEK PEOSE WOEKS 349 

and he told adventures and jokes until poor Frank, already tired 
out, fell fast asleep, and neither the starting nor the stopping of 
the train disturbed his repose until the rising sun beamed 
brightly into the car window. Then he woke with a start. 
At first he was confused and could not recall yesterday's occur- 
rences; but soon his memory cleared all up, and he realized 
that he was no longer the penniless tramp in a ragged coat and 
disreputable hat, but a hero with a nice coat upon his back, a 
good hat on his head, and three hundred dollars in his pocket. 
His hand slipped slyly into that pocket to assure himself that 
it was no dream. Surely not, for he felt the pocketbook safely 
lying in its depths. The young man Green was gone ; left the 
car at some way-station, Frank supposed, and discarded him 
from his mind. He had so much to think about. His money ! 
Never until now had he realized how hard it had been for him 
to go home, a tramp, and without a cent, but now when he 
reached Chicago he would buy his mother a shawl, and Bob 
and Dotty lots of toys. He would go home in state, as it were, 
and by taking the train reach there so much the sooner. 

So Frank built his castles in the air, all resting upon the 
pedestal of his precious money. As the day brew brighter, 
people began to stir restlessly and rouse themselves. The porter 
passed through, extinguishing the lights, and before long every- 
body was good-naturedly or fretfully on the lookout for break- 
fast. Frank, as the hero of the night, had a sumptuous meal 
brought in from the dining-room car, nor had he any occasion 
to draw upon his lately acquired wealth while on the train. It 
was almost midnight of the following night before they drew 
near Chicago. 

The train was behind time from some slight accident, but 
Frank's heart was so light that he sat with his face wreathed 
in smiles. How rapidly he was nearing home ! Once at Chi- 
cago the way was so short, and now with bells ringing and 
whistles shrilly cutting the midnight air, the train, like some 
great serpent, slid its slippery length along the outskirts of the 
great city. It lay in shadow, the deep and solemn shadow of 
night, but scarcely asleep, for it appeared to blink its hundreds 
of eyes at the train as it came in. Here and there a belated 
pedestrian strode along the sidewalk. Carriages with their 



350 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

lamps, and hotel busses, were frequent. Policemen, too, in 
their uniforms paced slowly along their accustomed routes. 

Frank saw all this from the car window, shadowing his eyes 
with his hands to see the clearer into the darkness beyond, and 
when the brakeman opened the door and called out Chicago 
(which sounded like any other name rather than Chicago, as is 
the manner of brakeman announcements), before he had fairly 
slammed the door Frank was on his feet and ready to leave 
the train. The conductor came through, and he thanked him 
for his through ride. 

" That's all right," was the reply. " If it hadn't been for 
you some of us would 'a' been shunted-off on to another and a 
longer road, mighty sudden. Good luck go with you, young 
fellow, and hearken: You've showed that you ain't the stuff 
that tramps are made of, and that you are the stuff that heroes 
are made of. Can't you give up the tramp business and take 
the other route ? " 

Frank's face flushed and he answered, " I'll try ; thank vou, 
sir." 

A cordial shake of the hand, a hurried exit from the car, 
pushed forward by those back of him and retarded by those in 
front, bells ringing, brakemen calling, people shouting, a band 
of wretched music playing across the street; in fact, all the 
usual noise and bustle of entering a large city, and Frank stood 
in the depot alone. Yes, alone, though surrounded by crowds, 
hurrying to their homes or to the waiting-rooms. 

Frank resolved, having money, to go to a quiet hotel, of 
which he knew, and have a rest before the morning train went 
out. Accordingly he stepped briskly out from the depot, ignor- 
ing the importunities of the hackmen, and walking up the street. 
Before he had gone far he began to think of his money (it was 
more than he had ever owned before), and of all the luxuries 
that money represented. Green said there was three hundred 
dollars. He began to wonder how Green knew and then to long 
to count his money himself. A gas lamp at the corner of a silent 
street attracted his attention. Thither he went and, looking 
cautiously about to assure himself that he was unobserved, Frank 
sat down upon the curb-stone and drew from his pocket his 
precious treasure. How thin it seemed, he thought smilingly, 



LATEE PKOSE WORKS 351 

to hold so much ; and then he opened it. A thrill ran through 
his frame; a sudden pallor overspread his face, and a faint- 
ness came over him. He looked, and looked again, with that 
sickening sense of evil, and then, clutching his empty pocket 
book in his hand, poor Frank fell prone to the sidewalk. His 
money was gone ! 

Chapter III 

When Frank aroused himself from the stupor into which he 
had fallen, he understood at once how his sad loss had come 
about. He remembered the young man who had so affection- 
ately and familiarly taken the seat by his side; who chatted 
to him so affably and who, alas, left the car so secretly, whilst 
he, foolish fellow, slept. His wealth had taken to itself wings 
and flown to the depths, the wicked depths, of the young man 
Green's pocket. 

Frank trembled as with the ague, and then tears — hot, salt 
and indignant — poured over his cheeks. He had built so fair 
a castle upon the foundation of that money ! It had meant 
so much to him ! It was to be the beginning of a newer and 
better life. It was aid for the dear mother, who was drawing 
him steadily with the cords of her love homewards ; but it was 
gone. He could see no way of regaining it. 

" How could that thief be so mean" moaned poor Frank. 

" Mean ! " echoed his uneasy conscience. " You to call him 
mean ! Remember the money you tried to steal, and the braid 
of hair you did steal, because that brave girl resisted you. 
It's just right ; you're served right." 

" So I am," assented Frank, sitting up straight. " I'm worse 
than he a thousand times. That lovely hair ! I wonder if that 
girl would forgive me if she knew that the hair helped make a 
torch that saved the lives of a trainful of people ! If it hadn't 
been for that hair and its looking so like mother's, I'd never 
have been there to save them either." 

Frank, in his thoughts, summed up the situation thus : " No 
worse off than I was before. Rather better, having a decent 
coat on my back and a good hat on my head, so I'll curl in some- 
where to-night and to-morrow take the road." 



352 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

He had been so long accustomed to consider ways and means, 
irrespective of money, that now the best and the cheapest plan 
at once presented itself to him to go back to the depot, lounge 
about the waiting-room until daylight, and take his chances of a 
job by which he could earn his breakfast. This he did and in 
a few moments, his cap tipped over his eyes, he was in a sound 
and dreamless sleep; with the happy-go-lucky spirit of his 
race, he wasted no time in vain regrets. 

When he opened his eyes the early morning sun was strug- 
gling through the dirty window-panes, and a stout woman with 
her dress pinned up above a blue linsey petticoat was on her 
knees washing up the floor. Frank went to the washstand, gave 
himself a cool and brisk wash, used the comb tethered by a 
cord, upon his shaggy head, mentally vowing to have his hair 
cut with his first spare quarter ; and emerged, looking very little 
like the ragged, dirty and worthless tramp that had stood upon 
the bridge but a few hours before. So much has soap, water, 
combs, a decent coat and hat to do with the making of a man, 
in appearance at least. 

He walked the length of the depot several times, finally paus- 
ing before the dining-room as the door was already open, and 
a fat and florid man was briskly sweeping out the room. 

" Do you want anything ? " he asked Frank, as the latter 
walked up to him. 

" I'd like a job of some kind, I want to earn my breakfast. 
I was robbed of my money last night," said Frank apologeti- 
cally. 

" They mostly always is," muttered the man sotto voce. " If 
they ain't robbed, they lost it, purse and all. It's one or other 
of 'em does for 'em ! " 

" You don't believe me," asserted Frank, " and yet I tell you 
the truth. I stopped the train on the bridge and burnt up my 
coat to do it, lost my hat also, and they took me on the train, 
gave me this coat and hat and a purse of money. A young fel- 
low back of me said there was three hundred dollars. He came 
and sat by me, and when I fell asleep he left the train. He left 
the pocketbook in my pocket, but the money is gone. My name 
is Frank Eyan. Haven't you heard the story from some of 
the passengers ? " 



LATER PROSE WORKS 353 

Yes, the landlord had heard the story, and Frank's straight- 
forward, truthful manner convinced him that the hero of that 
story was before him. He was at heart a kindly man and would 
willingly help a trustworthy young man to earn a meal, besides 
was he not short of waiters, and was not the " six-train " always 
on time ? 

" I can do most anything ; wait on table, or wash dishes." 

The man resigned the broom to him. " Go ahead," he or- 
dered curtly, " sweep, dust, make fire, help set table, wash dishes, 
get breakfast ; bargain ! " 

" All right, sir," and our hero fell to work with his woman's 
weapon, and he worked so well that the landlord, Mr. White by 
name, as he bustled about, congratulated himself upon his new 
boy. 

After the " six-train " had thundered into the depot, belched 
out its hungry and weary travellers, gathered them up and 
thundered out again, Frank went to the landlord and repeated 
with a little twinkle of his eye, his orders for the morning, as 
accomplished, " Swept, dusted, fire made, helped set table, 
washed dishes, now get breakfast ; bargain ! " 

That individual heaped a plate lavishly with edibles, poured 
out a cup of coffee, set both before him and commanded la- 
conically, "Eat!" 

This command was obeyed literally and energetically and 
then Frank, thanking his employer, rose to go, when the latter 
said, " Stay, do work, get wages. I want boy, you want place, 
bargain ! " 

" No," smiled Frank, " I can't stay. I'm going home. I 
want to see my mother." 

" Walk ? " querried the man. 

" Yes." 

"Far?" 

" About sixty miles." 

"Exercise?" 

" Yes," said Frank, " I've walked most of the way from Den- 
ver, and I'm good for sixty miles, I guess." 

The landlord put a silver dollar in his hand, saying, " Buy 
dinner and supper, don't forget," and Frank was once more on 
his journey, friendless and alone. 



354 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" But how light my heart is," said he. " By to-morrow night 
I shall be home." 

All day he walked briskly and steadily, only stopping at a 
farmhouse for his dinner, and putting a roll in his pocket for 
supper. When night overtook him, he had made good progress. 
He secured lodging under the friendly roof of a barn, and day- 
light saw him again starting upon his journey. 

Once or twice he was so fortunate as to get a few miles lift 
in some passing wagon, and at last, at last, just as the evening 
sun was hanging like a great golden ball in the violet, orange 
and purple drapery of the western sky, he saw the familiar 
spire of the little church at which he had worshipped when a 
boy. A moment before he had felt himself tired, footsore, hun- 
gry, but now, now, he was so gay and fresh that he felt like 
shouting, " Mother ! Home ! " Down the little, narrow, brick- 
paved -street he went, breaking into a run, regardless of the 
curious eyes that followed him; down that street, up another 
and still another, until he saw his old home. 

There it stood, with the same little gate standing open, as if 
inviting him to enter; the same lilac at the front window, 
grown to a great bush now, and lifting its leafless arms against 
the house. The green paper blinds at the windows were drawn, 
and for the first time since his starting for home Frank's heart 
misgave him. What if they were all dead? He had not 
thought of that, yet it might be that death had been there before 
him. The thought bade him pause. He ran no longer, but 
with a heavy and halting step entered the little gate and slowly 
walked up the little gravelly path to the door. Once on the 
steps he paused again, and then gave a gentle knock, too gentle, 
for it was unheard. Another and a louder, brought to the door a 
strange woman, with a little girl clinging to her dress and 
peeping timidly out to see the stranger. Again Frank's heart 
fell. Where was his mother? Who was this stranger in his 
old home ? 

He found voice to ask for his mother, Mrs. Ryan, and then 
recollected that she had another name and corrected himself. 
" This used to be her name. Does she live here ? " 

" I guess that's the woman that moved out when we come," 
was the reply. " They ain't here, they went West, as I've 
heard, but I didn't know them." 



LATEK PKOSE WOEKS 355 

The woman held the door suspiciously half -closed, but Frank 
did not notice that. 

" Gone West," and he perhaps had passed through the very 
town where they were. All his long and weary journey was 
for nothing, then, and he must go back, for find them he would ; 
back, but where? 

" Do you know where they went ? " he asked, adding, " I am 
her oldest son and have come from Denver to see her. Do you 
know if they were all — " alive, he could not utter, so he said 
—"well?" 

" No, I don't know about them. All I know, my husband 
took the house from them. 

" Did he buy it ? " asked Frank, " or do you lease ? " It 
seemed a sad thing for him that even his home should have 
passed into strangers' hands. 

" We bought," was the reply. " The lady was dreadful set 
against selling the place, but he got around her some way. 
Least- wise my husband said so." 

She looked at her questioner carefully and then invited him 
in. Tired, disappointed, cold and hungry, he readily accepted 
her invitation, and once more set his feet in the home of his 
boyhood. Dear home, how it revived his recollections of the 
past ! There in that corner was Dot tie's little cradle bed, here 
Bobby sat, and here a sun, around which revolved all these home 
planets, sat his mother. 

His hostess, who informed him she was called Mrs. Hall, 
bustled about laying the table for supper and soon her good 
man came in, tired and dirty from his work. He seemed a 
jovial soul and after a refreshing wash, came and sat down by 
the fire and was introduced to Frank. He could tell him some- 
thing more than his wife had done, for he had seen the family. 
His mother, so he told Frank, was always sickly and the girl 
was as fine a little gal as was in those parts. 

" And the boy ? " asked Frank. " Bobby." 

" I don't know of any boy. I never saw one, maybe he had 
run away too," said Mr. Hall. 

A thrill ran through Frank. Suppose he had, and left his 
mother to her fate! 

" As for the man," continued Hall, " he was the slipperiest 



350 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

customer that I ever dealt with. I watched him like a hawk 
and then he got the better of me, but, law, I needn't grumble, 
for his sharpness never does him no good. He sharpens his 
knife so keen that he alius cuts his own fingers with it." 

Frank found his new friends hospitably inclined; he stayed 
to supper and accepted the offer of a shake-down in the kitchen, 
made by the wife, probably in consideration of the attention 
that he paid to the children. Being fond of little ones and of 
diverting them, he was not in the house an hour before the two 
older ones were on his knees and even the baby laughed when 
he whistled. He did not resent the meaning glances exchanged 
between husband and wife before she gave the invitation, for 
he had been a tramp too long not to understand the estimation in 
which those gentry are held. 

" I don't want to stay and not pay for my bed and board," he 
said. " Now, if you will let me cut some wood in the morn- 
ing, or clean up the yard, or any chores, I'll stay and thank you," 
and stay he did. 

Sabbath morning Frank rose and looked out of the low win- 
dow at the rising sun. This then was his home coming. No 
mother's kiss, no sister or brother; strangers in the old place, 
and instead of the dear welcome and rest that he had expected 
here, penniless, friendless, alone, he saw only another long 
and weary journey back. Should he give it up? As he lay 
back on his pillow he half resolved io cease his search, when 
suddenly, how or whence he knew not, whether it was fancy or 
reality he did not know, but this was certain, he heard a voice, 
his mother's voice, calling loudly : " Frank, Frank, come, 
come ! " 

" Mother, mother, I am coming," involuntarily answered the 
boy, and now there was no hesitation, no thought of giving up his 
search. Living or dead he would find his mother, but in his 
own mind he was convinced that she was living and needed him, 
for had she not called him ? He arose from his rude couch and 
quietly let himself out the kitchen door. The family were not 
yet astir and he could not rest. The rising sun was glinting 
sky and earth with its golden glory, and the cool frosty air re- 
freshed him. On a brow of the hill back of the house the village 
graveyard rose ghostly in the hazy light. Frank went thither, 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 357 

wanting to see once more his father's grave. He unlatched 
the gate and wended his way by the well-remembered path to 
his father's resting place. It was there, neglected and grass- 
grown of course, and by its side another, smaller, fresher. 
With a sudden start Frank stooped, pushed aside the heavy 
growth of last summer's weeds and read, " Sacred to the memory 
of Eobert Eyan, second son of Erank Eyan," then followed age 
and date of death, but Frank read no more. Eobert Eyan! 
Why that was Bobby, little Bobby, and he was dead ! He sat 
down and leaned his head against the stone. 

Surely, surely the hand of the Lord was heavy upon him. 
His heart cried out one moment against it and the next he ac- 
knowledged that it was just. He had left them and why should 
he expect to find them alive and well ? Bobby had had to take 
up the burden that he had thrown aside. What wonder then 
that his slender shoulders had been too feeble to bear them, and 
he had sunk beneath them ! Tenderly, with tears raining from 
his eyes, he cleared the weeds away from Bobbie's grave, sol- 
emnly and sadly he consecrated himself, here by Bobbie's grave 
to a new and earnest life. He would find his mother and Dot- 
tie and henceforth their comfort should be his care, and he 
would so live that Bobby, who he felt was somehow watching 
him, should not be ashamed of him. The solemn silence of 
the early morning, the loneliness of the place, and above all 
the graves of his dear ones lying neglected at his feet, affected 
him as nothing else could have done. A cry arose to his lips, 
earnest and sincere, " O God, help me, help me! " and into his 
soul came the answer, " that peace which passeth understand- 
ing " that calm assurance of aid, that firmness to achieve and 
patience to endure, which made Stephen's face to shine in the 
midst of torture and St. Paul to cry out joyously in the greatest 
of his persecutions, " I have fought a good fight." 

When Frank returned to the cottage he found the family 
busy preparing breakfast. Mrs. Hall said, " I thought you'd 
slipt away, and I told Hall that I'd been mistaken in you, but 
I'm glad to see you've come back." As she spoke she looked 
at him and the new light in his face appealed to her at once. 
Without understanding the cause she saw the change, and did 
not add, as she had intended, the slur, " For your breakfast." 



358 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" I went," said Frank, u over to see my father's grave, and I 
found there my brother's also. It was a great grief to me." 

" So it must 'a' been, sir, and I'm sorry I spoke so. Break- 
fast's ready, now come and eat, I'll call Hall." 

" Hall," summoned, appeared with a child in each hand, and 
a few moments later the little family, gathered about the sim- 
ple meal, bowed their heads and asked God's blessing upon 
them. It had been many years since Frank had sat at a Chris- 
tian family's table, and this quiet Sabbath morning, coming as 
it did after his visit to his brother's grave, touched him greatly. 
How happy and contented, how innocent and unselfish, seemed 
these simple people. After breakfast Frank, as he could so well 
do, made himself generally useful doing the small chores about 
the house, and then announced his intention of pushing on. 

" Where are you going ? " said Mr. Hall. 

" I am going to find mother, wherever she is. Can you 
tell me where I could get news of her ? " 

"It's likely the man at the hotel could tell you, but you'd. 
better stay here to-day, I don't go in for travelling Sundays 
somehow, and start tomorrow." 

Frank was ready to accede to this, but to his mind rose the 
cry that he had heard " Frank, come, come," and he answered, 
" No, I must go. I'm sure mother needs me." 

He bade them good-bye and went at once to the one hotel 
in the place, and there he learned that the family had gone to 
Chicago and had left the address, " Mrs. Gay's boarding house, 
Gorman St., 960," which the landlord kindly searched for in 
his book and gave the boy. 

Back then to Chicago, begging rides, walking, getting a meal 
as he could or doing without, travelled Frank, and when he 
reached Mrs. Gay's boarding house, he found that lady in a 
towering rage against his step-father. She recollected him 
very well indeed, had good reasons to do so and didn't want 
to see him or any one related to him as he left two weeks' 
board unpaid and skipped out. She found out that they had 
gone to Denver, but she could not follow him or get her dues. 
She only hoped his son, if he was his son, would pay it. Frank 
disclaimed all relationship to her debtor and stopped only long 
enough to procure the necessities of food and changes of cloth- 



LATEE PKOSE WOEKS 359 

ing, by means of a few days' labor, when he once more took up 
his long and weary journey westward, counting the hours as they 
passed and hearing, even in his dreams, his mother's voice 
calling in soft entreaty, " Frank, Frank, come, come ! " 

The weather was cold and he was poorly clad, and often the 
sharp and icy wind beating in his face almost took his breath, 
but still he pushed on, drawing nearer and nearer to his goal. 
Sometimes a friendly engineer would take him on the engine 
from one station to another — sometimes a kindly man gave him 
a lift in his wagon, of tened he trudged along with a small pack on 
his stick, eating and sleeping as best he could. Weary, hungry, 
cold, with blistered feet, but a stout heart; and every night as 
he sought any shelter obtainable and laid down his tired head, 
he called out cheerily as if in answer to the voice which urged 
him on, " I'm coming, Mother, I'm coming." 

CHAPTEE IV 

" Open the blinds, Janet, it's still light and you can see 
further down the road. Can you see him yet? He's on the 
way." 

" Mother dear," said Janie softly, smoothing the gray hair 
of the invalid, " he will be here presently. You know he 
doesn't know you are sick." 

" Yes, he does, Janie. Every night when I lie awake I 
hear him calling out, i I'm coming, Mother, I'm coming,' and I 
know Frank ; he was ever a headstrong boy, but he never told 
me a lie — and, Janie, I have been with him these many days 
when you thought I slept. Miles and miles have we travelled 
together. We have been hungry and cold and weary, but all 
the time getting nearer and nearer, and to-night, to-night, Janie, 
he will come." 

The invalid's eyes were bright and glittering, her pale cheek 
flushed with a feverish glow, and as she talked she clasped and 
unclasped her thin hands. Janie turned away with a strange 
sinking at the heart. Her mother, she knew, was dying, and she 
thought her mind wandered, but in a few moments the dying 
woman spoke again. 

" I have prayed that he might come before I go, I could not 



360 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

die and leave you and the children, God knows that I could not, 
and he is bringing Frank back to take care of you, and now he is 
here. Can't you hear his step on the frozen ground — nearer, 
nearer and nearer. He is in the lane, he is in the yard. Look ! 
look ! Janet, you will see him now." 

Mrs. LeDerle's eyes were wild with excitement. She rose in 
her bed and supported her head in her hands, and Janie, as she 
had done so many times before to satisfy her mother, looked out 
upon the road. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was 
shedding its golden glory over the western sky, and sharply 
outlined against its brightness she saw the figure of a man — 
a traveller apparently. As he came nearer she discerned his 
staff and bundle ; he reached the crossroads and turned up the 
lane leading to their house. Her heart gave a great leap. Had 
her mother's vision been prophetic? Had indeed her long 
lost brother come at the call of that dying mother ? 

She turned to the invalid whose eyes easily read her face, 
" You see him ! You see him ! " she said. 

" I see a man coming towards our house, but, mother dear, 
do not be too sure. It may be a stranger or father." 

" No, no stranger, and father has forgotten us, only my son, 
may God be praised ! " sighed she, with infinite content. " He 
is not too late. Bring him in, Janet, and then, after a while, 
the other children." 

She lay back upon her pillow and closed her eyes, evidently 
to gather all her strength and energies to meet her son, but no 
doubt of its being he crossed her mind. He was here in answer 
to her call, her prayer. Had not he said, " Ask and ye shall 
receive." 

Obeying her mother, Janie ran to the door to admit the 
stranger. Her mother's faith had so strongly influenced her 
mind that she scarcely doubted that her brother, whom she 
hardly recollected, had indeed come, and she flew to the door 
and threw it open before he had time to knock. Before her, 
his black eyes dimmed with tears, his head bowed in shame and 
contrition, no longer ragged, or dirty, but with a new light on 
his face, stood her tramp. She was first to recover herself. 
" You ! You ! " she cried. " How dare you ! " and he lifted 
his eyes to her face and held out his arms appealingly to her. 



LATEK PROSE WORKS 361 

" Dot, Dot, my little sister, don't you know me ? " 

Before she could reply, from her mother's room came a wail, 
" Frank, Frank, come, come quickly," and he pushed his sister 
aside and ran towards the room from whence came the cry. 
What a meeting was that! The dying mother and repentant 
son sat folded in a close embrace. Tears bathed his face, but 
not hers, for her life had now no grief, death no terrors. 

" I was with you," she whispered, " all the way back. I 
saw you at home, at Bobby's grave, and I have been with you 
ever since. Bring the children." 

They brought them, Jock and Joe and baby Charlie. She 
looked at them sadly, but not regretfully. 

" Frank," she said, " they have no mother — nor father," 
she added. 

" Mother, I will be their father," said Frank. " Do not fear 
for them. I have sinned ; that shall be my expiation. Dot and 
they shall grow to trust me and, so far as in me lies, I will bring 
them all to you in Heaven." 

She lifted her wan white arms and folded them about his 
neck. She laid her head with its lovely silver hair upon his 
breast, and Janie led the children quietly away. " Thank God, 
Thank God ! " Frank heard her whisper, and when he looked at 
the peaceful and joy-illumined face as it lay upon his breast, he 
smiled — yes, though he knew that the dear and tender heart 
which so lately beat against his own was forever still. 

And now for Frank began a new and noble life. Inch by inch 
he fought his idle and evil habits, day by day he labored man- 
fully and faithfully for the little ones dependent upon him. 
Janie's pure and noble influence was his safeguard. For her 
he took and kept the pledge ; for her he studied and toiled, and 
in her he had his reward. The worthless father occasionally 
reappeared and was an added burden ; a burden but never cast 
off, for Frank's conscience was always upbraiding him for 
the past, and each trial was hailed as a fresh means by which 
he might prove his repentance. And many a night as he lay 
upon his bed he heard his mother's voice calling, " Frank, 
Frank, come, come," even as it had called him in the little home 
cottage. It nerved him to nobler deeds, it urged him to higher 
and holier living, it made him lift life's burdens patiently and 



362 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

bravely with the hope of meeting her again, feeling sure that at 
the gates of pearl she is waiting for him, even as she waked in 
the little log cabin, sure of his coming as she was then; and 
sometimes in the gloaming, as his thoughts follow her, he fancies 
she can hear his voice as he whispers, " I'm coming, Mother, 
I'm coming." 

FINIS 



EOSIE AND HEE GODMOTHEE 

You must know that Eosie had a godmother. She was not 
Georgie' s godmother, but after the manner of old ladies, she 
liked once in a while to read Georgie a lesson as well ; and even 
Mabel, although she was a great girl eleven years old, came 
in for her share of teaching. I don't think that Eosie's mother 
knew that little old fairy came to see the children until one 
day when they had been unusually naughty. Georgie had 
cried to have his own way; he and Eosie had quarrelled and 
mamma had sent both children to bed. Eosie was very angry 
and cried herself to sleep. Georgie whispered his little prayer, 
forgot his ill-temper and also dropped into slumber. Then 
what do you suppose happened? It was just dawn, and the 
first faint little golden streak of daylight shone in through 
Eosie's window, and upon the foot of Eosie's bed, yes and upon 
something else too for there stood the strangest little withered 
up old woman not so high as Eosie's kitten. She wore little 
high-heeled red slippers, and blue stockings, and a red gown 
tucked up short. She had a great frilled cap upon her funny 
little head and had a little stick in her hand from which hung 
two baskets filled with seeds. One of them was full of little 
gray seeds and the colors of the other were red and blue and 
golden. Eosie could not help thinking how pretty they were. 
The little old woman rapped Eosie smartly with her stick and 
then touched Georgie who opened his wide blue eyes with aston- 
ishment. 

" My dears," said she in a little cracked voice, " here are 
some seeds. Which will you have ? You are to go on a jour- 
ney to-day and must have them to sow. These pretty ones will 



LATEE PKOSE WOKKS 363 

spring up into thorns to hurt your feet, and these little gray ones 
will grow into soft mosses — " 

Before she could pause, Rosie cried out : 

" I want the pretty seeds, I will have the pretty seeds. Give 
them to me." 

And little Georgie, ever the gentlest, said : 

" I will take the little gray seeds." 

Instantly the little old woman vanished and the children found 
themselves outside the garden gate with their chosen baskets 
in their hands. 

" She said we must scatter them," said Rosie, taking a hand- 
ful of her seeds and casting them away. The wind bore them 
out of sight. Georgie also scattered his and they too vanished ; 
but as the little ones went on Rosie's path grew broad and rough 
and thorny, and she saw in terror that Georgie was going in a 
narrow way carpeted with soft and tender mosses. In vain 
she cried to him to go to her. In vain he strove to reach her 
side to comfort her; wider and wider their paths separated. 
Brighter and softer and fairer grew Georgie' s — rougher and 
more thorny grew poor Rosie's until with weary bleeding feet 
and torn hands she sank among the briars weeping bitterly. 

" O Godmother," cried she, " I am sorry I would have my 
own way ! " 

She saw through her tears her little godmother in her path. 

" Poor little child," said she, " do you see now that little 
self-will and waywardness are very pretty seeds but bear bitter 
fruit. Choose to scatter little common seeds of gentleness and 
kindness and obedience and you will find only flowers in your 
path." 

" Why Rosie," said her mamma, " what's the matter ? Have 
you been dreaming that you cried so hard ? " And there was 
Rosie lying in her little white bed at home with the tears stream- 
ing down her face and dear little Georgie asleep beside her. 
Mamma was there too, and she said Rosie had been dreaming 
but Rosie knew better. 



364 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

THE HEEMIT OE AHWAHNA 

EOREWORD 

To the wonderful people of a wonderful State who, sitting 
among the ashes of their smitten city could yet, as one of 
their number said " count their blessings/' pausing not to 
weep over losses ; making no moan, but while the smoke of the 
great fires was still enveloping them, the explosions of falling 
walls still sounding in their ears, homeless, mourners many of 
them, penniless all of them for the time being, could, and did, 
proceed at once to rebuild better than before their beloved city. 
To these brave, cheerful, energetic and optimistic souls the 
admiration of the world ; I dedicate this book. 

The Author. 

January 28, 1914. 

Chapter I 

THE TOURISTS 

Leaving the work-a-day lowlands and wandering into the 
heart of the mountains, we find a new world, and stand beside 
the majestic pines and firs and sequoias, silent and awestricken, 
as if in the presence of superior beings new arrived from some 
other star, so calm and bright and godlike they are. 

John. 

The early dawn of an October day ! 

A tender mist, half -rose, half -gray, eastbounded the land. 
Tinted like the inside of a sea-shell, it slowly dawned, grad- 
ually deepening and brightening until the all-embracing moun- 
tain-tops glowed like amethysts. A few pallid stars still 
gleamed unconquered in the darkness of the western sky. In 
the distance the shadowy mountains through that rose-white mist 
seemed but shadows indeed. Eoothills and valleys and the 
long slender road winding like a silver thread, in and out, 
seemed but the semblance of a dream. 

Tall cedars, outlining the scene with the sombre foliage, 
stood erect and straight like sentinels guarding the land, and 



LATER PEOSE WORKS 365 

the strange, mysterious silence which always precedes the dawn- 
ing of a new day could almost be felt. !Not a leaf stirred, nor 
a bird's wing. All nature seemed to hold its breath, waiting 
for that ever new wonder : the dawn of day, when, harsh and dis- 
cordant, clearing the silence and rushing like an evil thing 
through the shadowy scene; tooting and rumbling and ringing, 
as it came like some old-time monster breathing fire and smoke, 
dragging its train behind it, rushed this creation of man's genius. 
Puffing and snorting and ringing its bell, it came to a standstill 
in front of the little platform which adorned the small eating 
house at Raymond ; and in an instant all was hurry and bustle. 
Brighter and fairer grew the day. The tourists, eager for their 
morning meal, rushed for the restaurant, the Swiss gentleman 
in the van, with his butterfly net over his ample shoulder. It 
was not an inviting feast which awaited them. Two long 
tables standing at right angles and covered with sheeting which 
bore witness of many former meals ; plates, cups and saucers 
set at regular intervals, huge platters of coarse bread, and 
cruet stands with vinegar and such condiments graced the center 
of the tables. 

A lame and dirty Chinaman came limping in from a rear 
door, a pitcher of milk in one hand and a pot of coffee in the 
other. He was followed by a slatternly woman in a calico 
wrapper, minus half the buttons, who informed her guests that 
He was off on a toot and most likely wouldn't be back for a 
week. 

The Swiss gentleman seized the pitcher of milk and, break- 
ing a chunk of bread in it, began his repast. Those less fortu- 
nate contented themselves with black coffee and bread and when 
they grumbled the wrathful Son of the Orient suddenly snatched 
the table cloth and sent it with plates, cups and cruets crashing 
to the floor. Everybody sprang aside amazed and indignant, 
but the sweet and mellow call of a horn sent them rushing to 
the door, all annoyances forgotten, for it was the stage, it 
was indeed ; and six half broken bronchos, each with a hostler 
at his head, were pitching and rearing and doing all sorts of 
horse stunts. 

On the box sat Tom Kennedy; bluff, cheery, brown and red 
like an autumn leaf colored by wind and sun and storm of his 



S66 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

beloved mountains: the best driver and the most delightful 
of that lovely valley, for Tom had wintered and summered there 
for forty odd years, and as for driving — well, nobody could 
go nearer the edge of a curve and not slip off than Tom Kennedy, 
and it was one of the joys of his life to hear the Ohs ! and Ahs ! 
and feminine screams of his passengers as the stage grazed 
the edge at some dangerous turn or rushed pell-mell down 
some precipitous " pitch." 

Tom was calling now, " Aboard — Aboard, if you can't get 
aboard, get a brick " ; and the eager tourists, forgetful of that 
breakfast, laughing at the time-honored joke, made for the stage, 
good naturedly jostling each other in their haste. All were 
soon seated, two little boys beside Tom on the box. Tom cried, 
" Let her go, boys ! " The six hostlers sprang away from the 
horses' heads and heels, and away they dashed, rearing, pitching, 
kicking, bucking, backing, pulling, until it seemed as though 
Toon himself could not control them: but they did not know 
Tom. The ribbons were held firmly, the long whip curled and 
snapped and seemed never to strike anywhere. His " Steady 
Boys ! Steady Boys ! " appealed to their horse-sense and soon 
his " Bronchos " settled down to steady work and the sixty-mile 
stage ride was begun. At first, the sights of the mountain and 
wonderful forests kept eyes and ears busy. Every partridge 
running across the road, every bird whistling on a tree, every 
strange and gorgeous blossom by the roadside called for inspec- 
tion and admiration, but as they began a steady climb up the 
mountain road our passengers began to take stock of each other. 
It was a cosmopolitan crowd. On the front seat sat Judge 
Moose, of Cincinnati — short, stocky, dark and with a merry 
gleam in his eye. A Jewish gentleman and his gentle little wife 
clad in brown like a wren. She had sweet and wistful eyes 
and was constantly appealed to by her husband to corroborate 
his statements. They had been around the world ; had started, 
he said, with nine trunks and gradually reduced their baggage, 
shipping home the superfluous trunks until now a shawl-strap 
sufficed, and he was happy. " Henrietta must have the trunks," 
he complained, " and we sent two back from London, two from 
Vienna, two from Rome and now we are blessed with this strap. 
Is it not so, Henrietta ? " 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 367 

There was a gentleman, wife and son, a lively boy of ten, 
from Michigan ; and a pretty little widow from New York with 
her son ; there were two brothers from New Jersey, photograph- 
ers, who had been " saving up " for years to make the trip ; 
and in the back seat a young man, wife and little daughter from 
London, England. The man was tall, slender, stooped as from 
too much bending over books, with a high, white and narrow 
forehead, singularly frail ; thin curling brown hair rather long, 
piercing black eyes with a sparkle in their depths ; an oval face 
with tremulous lips, and long, white, slender, sinuous hands. 
He would have been noticeable anywhere. A settled air of 
melancholy seemed to brood over him. He seldom smiled and 
only when he answered some gay sally of his wife — and she, 
she was but a girl. Her pretty rounded arms and neck re- 
vealed themselves through the gray net of her waist. She had 
the purple violet eyes and long dark curling lashes of the Celtic 
race. Her pretty mouth was constantly wreathing in smiles. 
She was like a summer breeze, a sparkling waterfall, the breath 
of a tea rose. Everything bright and sweet and intangible, 
full of vitality and life. Her light golden, fluffy hair rolled 
back in waves from her low, broad, white brow and gleamed 
under the brim of the little gray hat with a yellow-hammer's 
wing. Her sweet and mellow voice, speaking, laughing, sing- 
ing gay little snatches, was a joy to hear. She threw back the 
Judge's witticisms with apt repartee, before the rest of the party 
had " caught on." She sang cradle songs to the solemn-faced 
little daughter resting in her arms, or improvised for her won- 
derful fairy stories (to which everybody listened) of mountain, 
cave and stream as they drove on. She revelled in the wonders 
of the road, the purple mists on the distant mountain-tops ; the 
verdure of the valleys, the merry waterfalls ; and as they slowly 
climbed up and up and ever up the winding mountain road, 
she felt no discomfort. The intense heat of noonday as they 
advanced, the billows of stifling dust, the rough stony road that 
moved more than one to complaint, did not exist for her. Her 
husband watched her fearfully as though he feared that she 
would suddenly vanish from his sight, and the solemn little 
girl with all of her mother's beauty and her father's more sedate 
manner — how she loved that fairy mother ! 



368 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

As the sun was setting, bathing the mountain-tops in a golden 
glory, and the valleys were in, a lovely, hazy shadow, the stage 
reached Wawma. 

A well-earned and enjoyed night's rest, and then they were 
off again. Fresh horses taxed Tom's powers of management; 
the air was more rarefied, pure and fresh as a cup of mountain 
spring water — and on all sides grew wonderful thickets and 
clusters and blankets of flowers. 

Through this day the tourists began to individualize, and 
names were exchanged ; little snatches of personal history given. 
The Swiss gentleman was a doctor and had a sanitarium in 
the Alps somewhere. Bugs and butterflies were his hobby. 
The Michigan family belonged to a wealthy lumberman, and 
the London family registered at Wawma as David Campbell 
and wife and child, Linden. The fairylike little wife was 
soon en rapport with the passengers. She chattered incessantly 
and innocently of their life, freely ; like a child she told of their 
troubles and joys. 

" You see," she said, " I am an American girl and was 
born in Ohio — such a beautiful State it is. The first that I 
can remember were the great locust trees in full bloom around 
our home. I can almost smell them now. They were so sweet, 
and we had two great dogs — but in a little while we left the 
home and Mother used to take me with her where she went 
to work at anything and everything. We never stayed in one 
place long and sometimes at night she would wake me, bundle me 
up and away we would go. We seemed always to be in hiding 
or running away. She never let me out of her sight. As I 
grew older, I knew, I don't know how, that she was afraid my 
father would steal me from her. She never spoke of him, and 
I never knew any more about him than that he was something 
to run away from. I gathered somewhere the idea that he was 
Irish and had been a singer and actor, but never knew whether it 
was true. One day in Chicago, Mother was at work in a hotel 
and I was singing. A gentleman heard me. He called my 
mother and told her that I could earn more in a week than she 
could in a year if she would let him train my voice. He said 
she could always stay with me. That was the beginning of 
my stage life. Together we traveled all over the States. 



LATER PROSE WORKS 360 

Sometimes playing and singing in small towns, sometimes in 
large cities. I always liked the one-night jumps. There was 
such hurry and bustle and excitement. I never did get tired, but 
my poor mother did. Finally our manager took his company to 
London and our misfortunes began. We didn't make the hit 
that he expected to make, and one night we went to the theatre 
to find it dark. He had taken all the receipts and skipped. 
Mother's health, never very rugged, began to fail and we had 
no money. Pretty soon we were living in one room, high up, 
and I was singing anywhere that I could, mostly in cafes — 
and Mother could no longer go out with me, then my good 
angel " — and she glanced tenderly at her husband — " came. 
Davie was preaching and working nights in the slums. He had 
come from Edinburgh, and one dark night as he stood at the 
door of the cafe he heard me singing. ' Such a little girl,' 
he afterwards told me, ' to be in such a place.' That was the 
beginning of his caring for me. After that he always saw me 
home and he made life more comfortable for Mother, and when 
she died " — she choked a little — " he promised Mother to take 
care of me, and he has — " 

" And," interjected the Judge, " he has his reward with 
him." 

" Marion," said her husband, " don't say any more — you've 
said enough." 

" Oh, yes I shall," she replied wilfully, " I want everybody 
to know how good you are. You see Davie's father is an aw- 
fully strict Presbyterian and is an elder in a Scotch church. 
They all scrimped and saved to send Dave to college and he 
prepared for the ministry. He was very much in earnest and 
took a solemn oath never to marry, as it might interfere with his 
work — but when my mother died and I was all alone in the 
great city, there was only one way that he could take care of me 
and that was to marry me. Maybe," — she glanced saucily 
from under her long lashes at her husband — " he wanted to 
anyway." 

" Right enough too," boomed the great voice of the Swiss 
gentleman, " I would have done that also ! " 

" Yes ! " said Marion, " I always tell him that my God would 
be proud of him, but you see Davie feels that he broke his vow 



370 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

to his God and he is always looking for some ample punishment 
to fall on us." 

" Marion, Marion/' reproved her husband, " don't say any 
more," and Marion womanlike, having said all she had to say, 
subsided. 

It was high noon when Tom Kennedy stopped his horses on 
the top of Prospect mountain, six thousand feet above the sea 
level and every one, even the playful boys, silently and awefully, 
gazed at the magnificent panorama spread before them. 

Surrounded by rugged mountain peaks, snowclad; looking 
down and down into the vividly green valley, through which 
like a silver thread winding in and out ran the Merced River. 
Great trees looked like bushes, and the Valley Inn like a doll's 
house. Prom rock to rock flashed mistlike waterfalls, golden in 
the sunshine, slender now, for it was October, but falling a 
thousand feet. The blue sky arching like a dome overhead, and 
flowers yellow and red and purple under foot. No one spoke. 
Pinally Tom touched up the new horses, chirruped to them all 
and began the descent into the valley, dashing recklessly over 
the rocky road ; rounding the most dangerous curves with scarce 
an inch to spare, to the great delight of the boys, Howard and 
'Gene, and finally with a joyful winding of the horn and rush 
of the horses (Tom always came in on a run), the stage drew 
up at Valley Inn. Susan McKinley, fair, plump and hospit- 
able, followed by her husband John, tall, gray and dreamy 
(somehow John always followed Susan) were standing on the 
porch to welcome their new guests to Valley Inn. 



Chapter II 

THE VALLEY INN 

At the door stood a Chinese boy clothed in Oriental garb, 
his long black queue swinging picturesquely down his back. 
With a large whisk broom he brushed off the layers of dust be- 
fore the travellers could enter the spotless precincts of a large 
and cheerful room which greeted their tired eyes through the 
open door. At one end of it stood the office desk neatly railed 
off, and at the other a large open fireplace in which glowed 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 371 

and sputtered and flamed a welcoming blaze, one " front-log- 
back log and filler/' for the air was growing chilly. 

" Come right along in," urged Susan. " It's right cold out- 
side, and I guess you must be tired from your long ride and — 
Oh, there's a baby, a blessed baby, I don't know when one has 
come this way before, not this whole year — My dearie, my 
dearie — " She gathered the little one to her ample bosom and 
led the way still talking. " Come on in, Tom, and get some- 
thing warming. I'll warrant me you've been telling some of 
your dreadful yarns and have scared these boys 'most to death. 
Don't you believe him, lads ; there's not a word of truth." 

" Ah, now, Susan, you know better. All's gospel truth that 
I'm tellin' them about this blessed valley. I never told a lie 
in my life. Can you put me up, Susan, for a day and a night % " 

u Surely, Tom, I can, and I'll go this very minute and tell 
Mandy — " 

" Well, I'll go and tend to my bronchos and then come in. 
I never trust my beasts to any hostlers. They will skimp them 
on their oatmeal water or not rub them down or do some other 
cheatin' job. Come on, boys, you'll like to see the bronchs in 
their native state. They don't like harness one little bit, and 
look at 'em now — See Bess biting Ted's ear — she's saying: 
* Just you wait, Ted, till I get you in the corral and you'll get 
one good kick — ' She always does what she says, too, does 
Bess, but I kind of like the old girl; she's full of ginger — 
You can see 'em turned out, and then run back to the house. 
I've some business to attend to." 

Tom went around to the barn and saw to his horses, a work 
that he never delegated to another, and then wended his way 
around the back of the house where the ample door of the kitchen 
stood wide open. Eesting a moment before " dishing up " 
stood Mandy — tall, gaunt, angular, with little, deep-set, brown 
eyes and large ears that stood out comically, brown hair drawn 
straight back from her narrow forehead and done up in a 
tight little knot at the back of her head ; her sleeves were rolled 
up revealing muscular and bony arms, and her spotless gingham 
and ruffled white apron, apparently donned that moment, at once 
marked her as a capable New England product as indeed she 
was. She had come to the Valley Inn in Nephew Job's time. 



3Y2 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

She wore at that time a brown suit which seemed to hang on 
rather than fit her angular frame, and she carried a bandbox 
in which was her best hat. Her feet in broad, low-heeled boots 
were more adapted for use than beauty, and yet Mandy, neat 
and precise, with a snap in her eyes and in her speech, was a 
pleasant woman. She was like a russet apple — not much to 
look at perhaps, but sweet and sound at the core. She was 
appalled at the shiftless ways and extravagant mismanage- 
ment of Job's incompetent and pretty wife. She had not been 
in the house two days before she had explored the kitchen, the 
pantry and the shed. She reported to Job the, to her, terrible 
state of things, the waste and idleness going on. " Ca'llate 
you're here to make money, ain't you ? Well, you'll never get 
along a mite if you don't get busy and run that kitchen better. 
Them boys will throw out with a teaspoon mor'n you can bring 
in with a spade." 

" I know that's about so," agreed Job, " but what's a man to 
do? I can't run the office and the kitchen both, and Erminie 
don't like to housekeep over much." 

" I'll tell you what's in my mind," interrupted Mandy ; 
" since Mother died, I haven't anybody belonging to me and 
one place is the same as another — if agreeable to you I'll stay 
and run that kitchen for a fair wage. I ain't a mite afraid but 
I'll save my wages out of that waste and leave you something 
besides. I'm neat and thrifty and I can't abide shiftless ways." 

Mandy stayed and at once became a necessary adjunct to 
the Valley Inn. The tables were decked in spotless linen, the 
meals were nicely cooked and quickly served, always piping 
hot. San Lee and Che-Sang learned very soon that wasteful 
ways were not her ways and that f antan and other games under 
the sheltering trees could only be tolerated out of work hours. 
Mandy " couldn't abide " their pigtails and loose garments, 
but she soon learned to depend upon their good qualities, and it 
was owing to her management that the Valley Inn was so 
largely patronized by tourists, and when Nephew Job " quit his 
job," as he expressed it, Mandy stayed on, and was Susan's right 
hand. She loved the mountains and the " pitches " which re- 
minded her of her own ~New Hampshire, though she could never 
be made to confess that El Capitan was quite so fine as Mount 
Washington. 



LATEE PEOSE WOBKS 373 

Tom came towards her, meditatingly chewing a straw. 

" How-dee, Mandy " lie ventured a little bashfully. 

" How do you do, Tom — I caTlate you've had a good trip. 
You're in on time." 

" Yes, that's so, just in time — and — say, Mandy, have 
you made up your mind yet ? I've done right smart at waitin'." 

" You can alway stop waitin'," in crisp tones. 

" I do' 'no's I can — When I want a thing I'm pretty apt 
to stick at it till I get it and — " 

" Get out of here, Tom Kennedy, with your wantin' a thing. 
I reckon I'm not that thing you're wantin'." 

" Oh, I say now, Mandy, I didn't mean — " 

" Get along with you, Tom Kennedy. I've got to dish up this 
dinner — thing, indeed ! " 

Tom beat a retreat, as he had frequently done before. He 
had liked Mandy from the start and all the more perhaps be- 
cause, like his " bronchs," she was difficult to manage, and sel- 
dom did he appear without seeking her out and " putting the 
question," always to be routed and flouted as in the present in- 
stance. " I alias," thought poor Tom, " seem to hit on the 
wrong word with Mandy." 

A most welcome dinner, hot and toothsome, was dispatched 
by the travellers, and then one by one they sought their rooms 
for a needed rest, nor could the delightful murmur of the river 
almost at their doors, nor the sighing of the pines, lure them 
from their rest. Night descended like a discarded mantle of 
the day, the skies blossomed into the wonderful brilliancy, the 
new morn hung like a golden sickle in the heavens and the night 
birds and insects began their songs and serenades, and then by 
twos and threes the tourists came out on to the broad porch. 
They were rested and eager to enjoy the crisp evening 
air. As for the boys, they had already raced half over 
the valley, had climbed a tree, had caught and ridden old 
Zeb, the family burro, to his great displeasure, and, wonder of 
wonders, had caught a little owl. The Swiss gentleman was 
greatly interested and extolled the scenery. " Not in my coun- 
try," said he, " not in my Switzerland is there more beauty, 
more grandeur or greater mountains than here in the cup of 
vour hand." 



374 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Afraid to wander far, led by John McKinley, who conversed 
in his quiet way as they walked, they saw the valley at night 
and then, scarcely rested yet, all went to their clean and cozy 
rooms. But the early dawn saw everybody alert and eager for 
the day's pleasure. The boys chased each other along the bank 
of the river and the older guests stood upon the porch, in silence, 
watching the rising of the sun over the mountains. It was a 
glorious sight, not to be portrayed by pen or pencil — that 
wonderful golden glow softly enveloping the snow-crowned moun- 
tains, the slowly receding shadows in the valley, the sweet and 
gentle breeze playing among the pine trees as they made their 
perpetual moan ; the singing of the Merced River as it wandered 
through the vivid green of the valley and glowed under the 
fringe of willows ; and the gigantic pines and oaks, the graceful 
hemlocks and cedars which framed the picture. John McKinley 
was a student rather than a landlord and he was now in his ele- 
ment. He pointed out the mountains and named them, Glacier 
Point, Half Dome, El Capitan, and told them of the trees, of 
the Falls — now running slenderly because the season was late ; 
he volunteered to pilot them to Mirror Lake after breakfast, 
and Bridal Veil Falls, and from him they gathered much of the 
history and legends of Ahwahna and of the Ahwahnachee — 
that small and fast-diminishing band of Indians, native to the 
valley, and who even now were encamped in the valley of the 
Yosemite, gathering pine nuts and grasshoppers and berries for 
their winter storage. All that long and delightful day they 
wandered, some on horseback, more on foot, up and down the 
hills, gathering flowers by the waters, watching the birds flitting 
from branch to branch, standing silently before the great and 
wonderful mountains which surrounded them and when night 
fell, a weary but happy crowd, they gathered once more in the 
living room of the Inn and sat around the crackling fire John 
McKinley, in his gentle voice, told them stories and legends of 
Ahwahna. They heard the screams of a wild-cat, and the 
hooting of the owls, and when the stars came out and the young 
moon rode high in the heavens Marion Campbell went to the 
little piano (it had been brought into the valley piecemeal by 
Nephew Job) and softly touching the keys began to sing, in her 
beautiful and sympathetic voice, 



LATEE PKOSE WOKKS 375 

Lord, keep us safe this night, 

Secure from all our fears 
May Angels guard us while we sleep 

Till morning light appears." 



Chapter III 

THE TRAGEDY 

The winding of the horn and Tom's loud and cheery, " Hallo ! 
Hallo ! " called out the tourists to a continuation of their jour- 
ney — and all responded except the family from London. Lit- 
tle Marion was ill ; all night she had tossed in feverish restless- 
ness and now like a little waxen image, spent with fever, was 
lying in her mother's arms. They decided to remain at the 
Inn until she was better. David Campbell, more melancholy 
than ever, hung over mother and child in speechless agony. To 
him every misfortune seemed the hand of the Almighty striking 
him in punishment, and his cloud had no silver lining. Sitting 
by the fire, her baby in her arms, the child's mother made a 
pretty picture. She talked baby nothings into the listless ears 
and sang, in her marvelous voice, a little lullaby with which 
her own mother in the troubled times of her early life had 
soothed her to sleep. 

Sleep, sleep while billows creep 

Over the slumberous sands; 
And every breeze 
Blesses the trees 

With trembling, shadowy hands. 
Birds in their nests, 
With heads in their breasts, 

Murmur a lullaby; 
And the bright river gleams 
In its silver streams 

Under the stars of the sky. 

Sleep, sleep, dearest one, sleep! 

Lying on Mother's breast: 
Safe, safe thy angel will keep 

Thee in thy innocent rest. 

Susan McKinley came and stood by mother and child, silently 
looking at the little one, " Somehow she makes me think of 
the little one that we lost," said she, " though she ain't really 



376 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

a mite like her, but she has some of her pretty ways. We 
buried her under the pines at the old home in Ohio, and the 
home was never the same after she went out of it. And when 
Nephew Job McKinley, who used to own this place, got scared 
out by an earthquake, father said, ' Let's go and take it, perhaps 
we'll be more contented there/ and so we came, and Nephew Job 
went to San Francisco — where he could get the earthquakes at 
first hand. I always thought Nephew Job was fore-handed. 
Well we came and settled down, but I don't see as I feel any 
more satisfied at losing ' Sweetheart.' 

" That's her little chair by the fire ; and when I'm sitting 
here alone and all is quiet I seem to see her sitting in it, her 
little hands holding on to the arms of the chair and she rocking- 
rocking and laughing up in my face as she used to do. So 
many people have children that they don't want it does seem as 
if the Lord might have left us our only one." 

" Susan dear," gently said John, " perhaps He'll give her 
back to us some day, and she's better off. She'll never grieve 
for us as we have for her." 

Susan wiped her eyes and began straightening the rugs. She 
did not look at John, but well she knew that John's eyes were 
also full of tears. There was no physician in the valley, but 
John McKinley was no mean substitute. He had studied medi- 
cine in his early manhood, though he had never matriculated, 
and now he kept on hand a small store of drugs for the benefit 
of his family, visitors, Indians or any one in need of help. 
Many an Indian mother brought her bright eyed little papoose in 
its beautiful beaded cradle to be cured of some baby ailment by 
the white doctor; and even the haughty chieftains did not 
disdain now and then to appear and demand that he cure them. 
Stray miners and lumbermen found here always a remedy for 
rheumatism and other ills generously handed out, and Susan's 
cheery voice and hearty meals generally completed the cure. 

After the stage had gone, bearing with it the pleasant com- 
panions of their journey — never, alas ! to re-assemble again 
on this earth — after the good-bys had been said and the little 
group left standing on the porch still listened to the rumbling 
of the wheels against the rocky road in the distance, an un- 
accountable sadness came over them. They could still hear the 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 377 

gay laughter and voices of that happy party on their way to 
the " Big Trees," and it was as though they had indeed parted 
company not alone with these gay companions but with joy 
itself. Silently they turned and re-entered the house. The 
little girl, wrapped in a white woolen shawl, was lying on the 
lounge, her eyes unnaturally bright, cheeks flushed with fever 
and her slender little hands clasping and unclasping each other 
in restlessness. She babbled continually of little pleasures that 
she had enjoyed ; the pony that she had been permitted to ride, 
the boat on the water and the lilies she herself had gathered ; of 
the dear doll " Arabella " shut up in the trunk, and most and 
of tenest of the dear mama who bent tenderly over her — bidding 
her not to let her go — to hold her fast, until soothed by the con- 
stant sponging of the little fevered face and hands, she dropped 
into a troubled sleep. Susan sat by her, gently patting her in 
her soft motherly way, and every hour the child grew dearer 
to her and seemed more and more like the little Sweetheart laid 
to rest under the pines of her old home so long ago. 

There was also a guest in the house — Gilbert Lee, a young 
man working his way through college, and during vacations he 
came to the valley to photograph and paint the wonderful scenes 
around him, these pictures to be disposed of later. He was 
a fair-faced, honest young fellow and a great favorite of the 
McKinleys, and each vacation found him back with them, oc- 
cupying always the same little room and cheerfully assisting 
them in entertaining their guests. He was greatly attracted by 
the beauty of the little sick child and volunteered to sit by her, 
which he often did, thus giving her parents a needed rest. 

The days passed wearily to them all. Coach loads of sight- 
seers invaded the Inn and left " for pastures new " ; day suc- 
ceeded day and still the sick child babbled in delirum and did 
not know even her adored mother. 

"Typhoid fever," said John McKinley. "It must run its 
course. You'll have to make up your minds to stay a month. 
It'll be twenty-one days before she's better, though. I think 
she'll pull through, but after that she's going to be weak and 
not able to be moved for some time." 

With this assurance they watched and hoped. Susan re- 
lieved them when she could, and young Gilbert took his turn, 



378 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

and then David and his wife would steal out for an hour's rest 
and walk in the valley, along the banks of the Merced, singing 
its song under the willows, or on the winding road until they 
stood upon the banks of that most beautiful lake of the moun- 
tains wherein every tree and shrub, mountain-peak, and star 
in the heavens smiled back from its clear water. One night 
the moon was full and stars in all their wonderful brilliancy 
studded the sky, cumulus clouds floated above the mountain 
heights in seried ranks, and were duplicated in the clear water. 
In silence David and his wife stood looking at the images re- 
flected there. All day he had been more than usually melan- 
choly, some premonition of coming disaster was strongly im- 
pressed upon his mind. Marion thought that he was worrying 
about the little Marion and strove to cheer him. As they 
stood under the branching shade of a willow they heard the 
scream of a wild-cat in the distance, almost at once it was an- 
swered by a cry which seemed to be overhead, like the cry of a 
child in distress. Startled, both looked up, and swift as an 
avenging spirit something sprang from the branches and fast- 
ened its fangs in Marion's throat; his claws tore the laces of 
her waist and his terrible form crushed her fainting to the earth. 
David, wild with fear, saw the creature as he sprang, and in- 
stantly flew empty-handed to the rescue of his wife. His slender 
sinewy hands closed about the throat of the beast, and squirm- 
ing, writhing, twisting, struggling, with snarls and incoherent 
cries, man and beast fought for the mastery. Little by little 
those strong and desperate hands did their work. The cat 
ceased to snarl ; with eyeballs protruding from the sockets and 
its black and swollen tongue hanging from the terrible open 
mouth, he released his cruel hold and faintly struggled for free- 
dom. Not until the last gasp did David relax his hold, and 
then, flinging the dead creature from him, he seized his fainting 
wife in his arms; tore away the blood-stained laces from her 
bosom ; felt in vain for the beating of her heart. Too late, too 
late! Like a broken lily she rested in his arms, and he knew 
that she was gone. Gently, then, he laid the little body on the 
ground and with a great and sudden cry, not less savage than 
that of the beast he had strangled, David Campbell fled up the 
mountain pass — up — up and away anywhere — anywhere 



LATEK PKOSE WOEKS 379 

from the sight of that horrible place, crying aloud as he ran, 
" The vengeance of Almighty God — the Judgment of the Lord ! 
It has fallen ! It has fallen ! " 

On and on through the darkness of the night he fled, fearless 
alike of man or beast or the thick darkness which encircled him. 
Up — up into the mountain fastnesses — obsessed by that one 
idea that God's vengeance in its most cruel form had overtaken 
him — that for his broken oath he was now being fearfully 
punished, David ran, leaving Marion and her beastly murderer 
lying in the dewy grass side by side. 

Chapter IV 



In the early dawn Gilbert Lee found them there — the pitiful 
little figure of the child-wife and the savage beast whose cruel 
fangs had done her to death. John McKinley and Tom Ken- 
nedy, who chanced to be at the Inn, and Gilbert brought the 
little body home and arranged for an inquest if it could be had, 
and searching parties to go out at once in search of the missing 
man. There was no question as to how Marion Campbell had 
been killed. The torn and bleeding throat and breast, and the 
strangled cat told the terrible tale. They buried her in the 
little burial plot, fenced in, beside the river. Susan had ar- 
rayed her in a pretty, soft, dove-colored silk gown which she 
took from her suit-case, and John McKinley read the beautiful 
burial service of the Episcopal Church. Mourners there were 
none, excepting those four, but the birds sang in the bushes and 
the leaves fell gently and drifted over the new-made grave. 
For several days the men, resident or touring the valley, searched 
for the missing husband, but the searchers were few, and none 
of them had much spare time, so finally it was abandoned. It 
was surmised that he had fled to the mountains in frenzy — 
his steps were trailed for many miles — and that up in the 
desolate mountain, a mountain lion or bear had killed him. 

At home Susan attended the little Marion, now doubly or- 
phaned, with ceaseless care, and was rewarded after many 
weeks by the child dropping into a quiet and refreshing sleep. 
When she awoke, she opened her eyes and asked at once for 



380 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" Mama." Joyfully that good woman cuddled her to her warm 
heart, comforted and fed her, and every day saw her regaining 
her lost strength. 

One night Susan and her husband were sitting before the 
open fireplace. The house was almost empty of tourists, as it 
was getting late in the season for them. Gilbert Lee had re- 
turned to his college, and the little Marion had that day been 
allowed to sit up in the living room. She had now been ten- 
derly tucked in her little bed, and Susan had listened to her 
childish prayer, " Now I lay me down to sleep," ending with, 
" God bless papa and mama," for she had not been told of the 
awful tragedy which had robbed her of both parents, and Susan 
had returned to her seat by the fire. 

As they sat, the same thoughts were in the minds of each. 
At length Susan voiced them. " John, what shall we do with 
her ? Do you know who she is ? " 

" I know nothing but the name in the register. I guess he 
had all his money and tickets and letters in his pockets when 
he went out that night." 

" Have you examined the baggage ? " 

" Yes, but there's nothing there, only clothes — nice, com- 
fortable ones, but nothing very fine and a Bible in Mr. Camp- 
bell's suit-case with his name in it." 

" She may have relations." 

" It's more than likely — but how can we find them ? " 

" I don't know, from what the poor little wife said she was an 
only child, her mother was dead and her father, if he is alive, 
of no account — and Mr. Campbell was an only son — he in 
some way offended his father and the father shut the door in his 
face. That's all I know and it's all we are likely to find out," 
replied Susan. " John, John, can't we keep the baby ? More 
and more she reminds me of our little Sweetheart, and it seems 
to me that God, seeing how lonesome we were, has given her to 
us." 

John patted the plump hand laid upon his knee to emphasize 
her pleading and smiled gently at her. " Surely, surely little 
woman, if we can, but we must first find out if she has any of 
her own people. I'll advertise in the city and if no one claims 
her, Susan, my dear, she's ours." 



LATEE PROSE WORKS 381 

So it was settled. Advertisements inserted from time to 
time brought no response, and soon the little Marion recalled her 
parents only as a dream. She recollected her ride into the 
valley, the Swiss gentleman with the butterfly net jumping out 
of the stage every little while and jabbing the air for butterflies 
which he never caught ; the boys who laughed at her and called 
her " Fluffy " ; Tom Kennedy with his jolly laugh; and, like a 
lovely dream, she recalled her mother as she nestled in her arms 
and her voice as she sang, " Sleep, sleep, baby, sleep." And 
never in all her life did she forget that cradle song, but as the 
days and weeks and months and years passed in the tender care 
of Father and Mother McKinley all of these childish memories 
faded into dreams. She was never told of her. past life, as 
it might sadden her. 

Tourist season and winter were her divisions of time. In 
the late autumn, when a few stray flakes of snow began to 
drift down upon the still flowery meadows and the dancing 
waters of the waterfalls, father began to lay in his wood, to call 
in his stock, horses, cows and sheep and safely house them and 
to get in provisions enough to stand a siege_, for well he knew 
those tiny flakes were but the advance guard of that great army 
of the snow which would soon blockade their home. Soon the 
flakes grew larger; thicker and thicker they fell and clung to 
spruce and cedar and fir tree, until the land was fairy-land, 
and the encircling mountains gleamed silver white against the 
cold blue sky. Then it snowed, ceaselessly, silently, until roads 
and fences and all landmarks were obliterated. The doors and 
windows were blocked, fifteen feet on a level and thirty, forty, 
fifty in drifts — and winter had come. 

This was the liveliest time of the year for little Marion — 
sitting in Sweetheart's little chair, watching the rosy apples 
roasting before the fire, and the mince pie warming for father ; 
listening to Susan's thricetold tales of her own youth in the far- 
away land of the Ohio. Her little hand clasped tenderly in 
Susan's own, was joy indeed. She loved to hear of the brave 
French mother who emigrated to what was then a wild land, 
who with five children of her own found room for four more 
of her dead sister's ; of the pranks of that gay crowd of young- 
sters gathered in the little log cabin under the three great locust 



382 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

trees which flowered so sweetly every summer — of the crystal 
spring under the hill lined with maiden-hair ferns, and the cool 
milk-house where great pans of milk sat on the pehbly bottom 
of the run, and the clear spring water ever running kept them 
cool. She loved to hear of the great belt of pine trees which 
grew near by and where the cardinals — Susan called them red- 
birds — built their nests and reared their young. 

And Susan had a quaint humor about her. She told once 
of the children being left at home when their parents started 
for the city. Old Dobbin was harnessed to the spring wagon, 
Mother was already in the front seat when Daddy turned and 
as a last caution said, " Children, don't you touch that whiskey 
on the top shelf." They never had dreamed of doing that, 
Susan said, but towards evening, tired of play, Elias climbed 
on a chair and brought down the forbidden whiskey. " Let's," 
said he. " Let's," said Katharine, abettor in every mischief. 
Some water was heated at the open fire — some sugar purloined 
and a lemon. Elias knew exactly how Daddy mixed his toddy, 
for had he not often watched him and longed for a taste of the 
delightful smelling mixture, and here was his opportunity — 
not neglected by any means. Every child had his or her glass 
— they tasted — tasted again and fell. They sang and danced 
and hallooed and by and by began to quarrel. Then they got 
sleepy and, finished Susan, " If you'll believe me, Sweetheart, 
when Mammy and Daddy got home they found the whole nine 
of us asleep on the floor and that whiskey bottle was empty." 

So Sweetheart grew to be the other sweetheart in their father's 
and mother's love, and the little chair was no longer vacant, 
and the little Marion had found her home. 



Chapter V 



When David Campbell opened his eyes he found himself lying 
in a cleft of the mountain-side. He rose stiffly from his cramped 
position and stumbled to his feet. He looked about him in a 
dazed manner as in a dream. In his headlong flight he had 
gone far and high beyond the valley, and exhausted at length had 



LATEK PKOSE WORKS 383 

sunk into a long and dreamless sleep, and this was the awaken- 
ing. He was cold and hungry and thirsty. Of those sensations 
he was conscious, but apart from that he might have been the 
primitive man. His hair was as white as snow, and a stubby 
beard adorned his face. How long he had lain in that uncon- 
scious sleep he did not know. He was as a man newly born into 
a world which he had never seen. Of the past, its sorrow, its 
joys, its tragedy, he remembered absolutely nothing; it was as 
though it had not been, even language seemed to have been for- 
gotten and he spoke no words. Instinctively he looked about 
him, trying to gratify his physical needs, thirst and hunger. 

A tiny thread of a waterfall gurgled and danced among the 
bracken near by. He stooped, made a cup of his hand and 
drank greedily — and as he stooped his eye ranged the valley 
below and he saw the beautiful sight of an Indian village. 
Their o' chums made of poles and thatched with incense cedar 
were planted at irregular intervals through the valley. It was 
the harvest season, and the Indians gathered in families from 
far and near were encamped here to gather and store their winter 
food — black oak acorns, pine nuts, manzanita berries, grass- 
hoppers, worms, fish and small game. Bucks, squaws and chil- 
dren were seen at work, even the dogs were made useful in tree- 
ing wild cats, and trailing mountain lions. It was a cheerful 
and busy scene. Half a dozen fires were burning, sending their 
straight columns of flame up in the still air, guarded by half 
a dozen Indian boys. Squaws, in their picturesque costumes, 
were pounding acorns in their stone ollas with their metats, 
and their papooses rocked and swung from branches near by in 
their Indian cradles. Others were warming water in their cook- 
ing baskets to mix in their meal, and the bucks were gathering 
great baskets of nuts for winter storage, and building their 
chuck'-ahs or storehouses covered with pine branches, points out, 
to ward off mice and squirrels. 

The odor of the cooking meal seemed to assail David's nos- 
trils ; hunger asserted itself. He at once began to descend to 
the valley, slipping, grasping branches or rocks, sliding, gain- 
ing another foothold, rounding some almost impossible cliff, 
still persevering, until at length, wearied and faint, he reached 
the camp and walked directly towards one of the fires. Im- 



384 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

passively the Indians watched him, asking no questions, ap- 
parently not observing this strange visitor, but in reality very 
alert. His snow-white hair framing his young face and his 
gleaming black eyes seemed to them supernatural. He did not 
speak but eyed hungrily the acorn cakes being baked for the 
morning meal. A pretty squaw who bore the musical name 
Ah-wei'-ha (Quiet Water) offered him a cup of manzanita cider, 
and he drank it eagerly. He took a cake from the burning coals 
and devoured it greedily. As-wei'-ha watched him silently. 
One of the chiefs came up, and she pointed significantly to the 
snow-white hair, and said in their own tongue, " The White 
God." Superstitious as all tribes living among Nature's sur- 
roundings are, the chieftain was impressed. Taking the man's 
hand he led him to a nearby o'chum, lifted the flap and bade 
him welcome. Thus was David Campbell adopted into the 
Yosemite tribe. Gradually he adopted their customs. Ah- 
wei'-ha gave him a deer-skin shirt and leggings with beautifully 
beaded moccasins, and he abandoned his own apparel in its favor. 
He made weirs for the fish, and learned to shoot small game with 
the bow and arrow. He helped to trap grasshoppers by digging 
a pit in the center of the meadow and armed with small bushes 
assisted the Indians in driving them into it. The squaws 
then kindled a fire over them and when they were well roasted 
they were ready for storage. All through that beautiful Indian 
summer David lived and worked with his new-formed friends. 
He learned something of their language and was especially 
kind and gentle with the little black-eyed children. He win- 
tered with them in the o'chum and learned the art of tipping 
arrows from the old men. When the deep snows came and 
they were shut off from the outside world, David would sketch 
wonderful designs on the dressed deer skins for the squaws to 
embroider in their colored porcupine quills or weave in their 
many-colored blankets. 

Among themselves they talked and said that he was the White 
God, To-tau-kon-nu'-la, re-incarnated and they gave him of 
their best, trusting that when the time came for him to leave 
them and return to the Great Spirit, as leave them he certainly 
would he would ask the Great Spirit's blessing upon them, 
and indeed it did seem that the acorns were more plentiful 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 385 

that season, the weather more delightful, and the fish crowded 
the river as never before. 

When spring came, that most beautiful season in God's most 
beautiful valley, when the snows began to melt and the rivers 
and falls to gurgle and sing their noble songs ; when the robins, 
and blue birds and orioles made the early morning gay with 
songs ; and the dogwood and syringa and manzanita in full and 
abundant flowering lighted up the sombre forests, and the 
snow-white azalia thickets in sheets of rosy snow bloomed in the 
valley — and along the streams large eyed violets, wild cyclamen 
and early mountain lilies, made fair the land — David, who 
had seemed so quietly contented, grew restless. When the 
Indians moved their camp farther up the mountains he made 
long and longer journeys away, sometimes being absent for 
several days and nights. At such times Ah-wei'-ha would lift 
her eyes towards El Capitan and say, " Soon, soon the White 
God goes as To-tan-kon-nu'-la went." In one of his wanderings 
he came upon an abandoned cabin — set in a little oasis of ver- 
dure. Around it flowed a little mountain streamlet, enclosing 
four or five acres, and at its back the foothills barricaded it. 
Actuated, perhaps, by some memory of his former civilized life, 
subconsciously, he made this little cabin his home, gradually 
gathering about and in it such necessities as were needful. 
Ah-wei'-ha, who had from his first coming among them assumed 
a special care over him, soon discovered his abode, and made 
frequent journeys to insure his comfort. The finest of dressed 
skins were spread upon his couch ; the chief's blankets, and finest 
baskets were brought to him, gifts from the Ahwanachee. She 
it was who encouraged him to hunt in the mountains, dressed 
and sold the skins of the animals he killed and bought him im- 
plements to cultivate his little garden. Even to her, David sel- 
dom spoke, and when he did it was in her own tongue. With in- 
finite pains he constructed a suspension bridge over the little 
stream which he could raise and lower at pleasure. Here he 
made his home, dug in his garden, planted his seeds and here 
alone and unmolested he continued to live. Squirrels chattered 
on his cabin roof, ran up and down his arms and searched for 
corn. Birds of many kinds came at his call for food. A little 
mountain goat which he had found deserted by its mother, 



386 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

brought in, warmed and fed, was his companion. His greatest 
happiness was in wandering through the woodlands — lying 
at full length on the 'broad tableland of some lofty mountain 
and looking at the wonderful scenery spread out beneath him. 
Often at night when the moon was full he would climb some 
nearby peak and his rich beautiful voice could be heard in some 
wordless song, wordless but full of melody as it echoed and re- 
echoed through the glades. At such times the Indians, listening 
awesomely to the music of his voice, would stand in awe and 
whisper, " The White God holds communion with the Great 
Spirit." 

Chapter VI 

LIFE IN THE VAELEY 

Years passed in the beautiful valley of Ahwahna. Springs 
came with sound of tinkling waterfalls, the voices of birds, the 
perfume of flowers; summers succeeded with their ripening 
grain and fruit and berries. Then came autumn, when the 
black oak cast its fruitful acorns, and the red pine its nourishing 
cones ; and then the white winters, when all nature slept under 
its coverlid of snow until another resurrection ; and little Sweet- 
heart of Valley Inn grew and flourished like the outdoor flowers. 

Never will she forget that most wonderful day when she was 
ten years old. It was early dawn and early spring when 
she heard Tom Kennedy's well-known shrill whistle. She ran 
down to the porch to welcome him. Father and Mother Mc- 
Kinley were already there, and Tom — Tom, with something 
standing beside him — Sweetheart's birthday gift — a darling 
little round roly-poly of a Pinto — spotted red and white, broad 
between the eyes which looked at her now with such a friendly 
look; broad of chest and standing upon his four sturdy little 
legs with his bridle over his head. He was accoutred in a beau- 
tiful Mexican saddle and bridle, and a fine Indian saddle-cloth 
embroidered in porcupine quills. Such a pony! Sweetheart 
gave a scream of delight. 

" Tom ! Tom ! Is he for me ? — for my very own ? Oh, 
don't say it if it isn't true or you'll break my heart." 

" He's yours for sure, Sweetheart. I've gentled him for you 



LATEE PROSE WORKS 387 

this winter, and Father and Mother bought the bridle and fancy 
fixin's — Come here, Dandy, and shake hands. Here's your 
new mis tress." 

The intelligent little creature obediently gave his right fore 
foot to be shaken by the child — then his left. 

"Kneel, Dandy." 

With both fore feet doubled awkwardly enough under him, 
Dandy knelt — rolled over, went to sleep — sat up, and finally 
kissed his master affectionately, putting his fore feet on Tom's 
shoulder and nozzling him. Tom patted him, let him find the 
sugar hidden in his coat pocket and then said, " That'll do, 
Dandy ; and now, Sweetheart, you must learn to ride." 

" Oh, Tom ! Tom ! " Marion threw her arms about his neck 
and rapturously kissed him, to his great embarrassment; then 
Father and Mother were embraced and lastly Dandy himself, 
who endured the embraces for the sugar so lavishly conferred 
upon him. 

Then began a new life for Marion and for John McKinley 
as well. Together, John walking by her side, they traversed 
the valleys and the hills ; from John she learned the flora and 
fauna of that wonderful region which she called home. She 
soon knew the call of every bird, the track of every beast, and 
flowers and shrubs and trees became to her an open book. 
Through the green and pleasant glades under the Big Trees 
they often lingered, returning when the stars came out, laden 
with flowers and nuts in their season. Susan, ever kind, pa- 
tiently assumed the burden of their neglected duties and wel- 
comed these children of the wild, when they came, having al- 
ways some dainty reserved for their suppers. 

When the Indians were encamped in the little valley gath- 
ering their winter stores of nuts and cones, fish and game, Ma- 
rion and her father would then spend a happy day among them. 
One winter the squaws made a dress of tanned doe-skin for the 
little girl — beautifully embroidered in colored porcupine 
quills and beads, and fringed. Marion was fond of wearing 
this suit and always put it on when she visited her Indian 
friends, her long and abundant hair, like corn silk, hanging 
in two braids to her waist, a little beaded toque upon her head. 
She early learned the simple words of their language, and her 



388 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

father loved to sit by their camp fire and coax from their reti- 
cent old men the legends of the valley: how Tis-sa'-ack, that 
great woman magician, came from the West and taught their 
women to weave the pretty baskets which they still weave ; how 
To-tau-kon-nu'-la, their mighty chieftan, built her a great 
" O'chum " upon the highest mountain — how he loved her 
with a great and absorbing love, and how she refused his offer. 
"I go to my people," she cried and vanished from his sight; 
how the love-lorn chief for love of her forgot his people and 
sought her for many, many moons in many lands. Then it 
was that calamity came to the Ahwa-na-chee. Drought came, 
crops failed, deer wandered away and all the streams dried up. 
A dreadful darkness fell upon them; the earth trembled and 
rolled mightily; thunders boomed and lightnings cleft the skies 
in two. The great dome Tis-sa'-ac rose in the air, burst 
asunder and half of it fell into the valley ; fire sprang from the 
ground and the streams burst their bounds. Then it was that 
a strange and marvelous thing happened. Up in the midst of 
the valley gurgled and bubbled a spring of living water, clear 
as a diamond, cold as ice, fresh from the hand of the Great 
Spirit. It flowed and flowed spreading outward and outward 
until the lake Ahwei'ha, quiet as a dream, reflected in its depths 
trees and mountains and it is there to this day, the gift of the 
Great Spirit. Then the Great Spirit listened to the prayers 
of his children and took away the dark cloud, and gave them 
meat and drink. Many hundreds had died of want and the 
great tribe was but a little one now. One day, looking up, 
they saw limned upon the great rock the figure of their lost 
chieftain. He was on horseback and pointing towards the 
West, where he can still be seen. They knew then that he had 
gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds. 

Gilbert Lee, returning each vacation, often made a third in 
these excursions of Marion and her father, and many a choice 
bit of scenery found its way to market through his talented 
brush. He grew very fond of Sweetheart (as everybody called 
her), and never came without some little gift for her. Once 
Susan confided to him that she could not get such dresses as she 
thought Sweetheart ought to have. 

" You see," said she, " I can make her little ginghams all 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 389 

right, but I don't know styles, and I'm not worth a fig to copy 
the clothes the tourist ladies wear. She couldn't wear such hig- 
gledy-piggledy things if I did." 

"I'll fix that fine," said the good fellow. "Mother and 
Mollie will he glad to buy her things and send them to her. 
Send her measure each spring and fall and it'll be attended to 
all right." 

And so it came about that Marion was always suitably and 
neatly attired. Susan taught her the sweet and womanly ways 
of her own life and religion, and from her father she had les- 
sons in a few books, and in forest and mountain and valley. 
From Gilbert she received many a tactful suggestion greatly 
needed by the child who had never entered a church or school. 

Years passed, and in the circuit of those wonderful mountains 
the little Marion grew to womanhood. Possessed of the beauty 
of her mother, softened and subdued by the temperament of her 
father, she developed, like the wild roses which blossomed about 
the porch, into a beauty all her own. She was a dreamer, like 
her father, but never morbid ; full of deep and living faith in her 
Heavenly Father, she wasted no time in idle complaints. She 
early made the acquaintance, if anything so one-sided would be 
called acquaintance, with the hermit. 

One bright and early morning when the brown thrushes were 
singing their jubilate, and all nature rejoicing in the glowing 
season, Marion and Dandy set out for a long and happy day. 
Not in any hurry were they this day. Dandy ambled along 
at his own sweet will, and Marion drew in long breaths of the 
life-giving air. As they went through the valley she noted the 
manzanita blossoms, pink as a lady's ear, the lovely azalea thick- 
ets, each blossom with its glowing heart ; the wild roses rioting 
over every little crevice and rock, and in every nook and corner 
where they could find a foothold columbines swinging their 
many colored bells, bending to every breeze. Keenly alive to 
beauty, Marion held Dandy to a walk and as she ascended the 
mountain road glimpsed a most rare and lovely sight. In the 
valley just below her, her attention was arrested by a hollow 
drumming, and glancing down to see the cause she espied a 
gorgeous ruffled grouse standing in the edge of the wood by a fal- 
len tree. 



390 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

He was standing erect, clad in all the magnificence of early 
spring plumage; his head crowned by a crest of brown and red 
and gold; his long and finely tinted tail sweeping the ground. 
Among the fallen leaves of last year he stood, a re-incarnation 
of their autumn tints, and he was calling, calling, calling for 
his mate. His bright and glancing eye, his noble bearing, his 
gorgeous plumage, told the love story of the woodland. He was 
about to drum, and again sounded the muffled call which Marion 
had heard — tap — tap tap, the call of the lover to his love. 
He waited, head erect — crest uplifted and not in vain, for 
timidly as a young maiden, alone and hesitating half concealed 
by the bracken, step by step came a little brown hen. The 
bright eyes caught sight of her, the listening ears heard her 
timid foot, and instantly the noble bird emitting cries of joy, 
beating his beautifully colored wings rapidly until he seemed 
in a mist, curvetted and danced, but with great dignity, draw- 
ing nearer and nearer as she retreated, saluting the lady of his 
heart. It was a pretty and unusual sight, and Marion was 
delighted. " I'll tell Father that at last I saw a grouse ' drum- 
ming/ " she decided as she rode on. 



Chapter VII 

MARION AND THE HERMIT 

From the highway Marion saw the little cabin which she had 
often seen before in passing. This time the hermit was out in 
his little garden, planting early seeds, his dog — an Indian dog 
which Ah-wei-ha had given him years before — following at his 
heels. Clad in deer-skin shirt and leggins, which he habitually 
wore, his long and snow white hair waving in the breeze, for 
his head was uncovered ; his snowy beard reaching to his breast, 
he was a most unusual looking man. Moved by some sudden 
impulse Marion called, " Calah, Calah " — the Indian name by 
which alone he was known. He did not reply nor turn ; again 
she called, " I want to come and see you, Ca'lah, cannot I ? 
Let down the bridge." The portcullis was up. Getting no 
reply and being a young lady who was accustomed to get what 
she wanted some way, Marion, sitting on Dandy's back, re- 



LATEK PEOSE WOKKS 391 

connoitered the situation. The little creek was running full 
and free, but Marion and Dandy alike disdained any barriers. 
She put him at the bank and soon he was scrambling up the 
opposite one, and Marion sprang from his back, threw the 
bridle over his head, which was an order for him to stand, and 
walked up to the hermit. " I think you must get lonesome/' said 
the little girl. " Dandy and I so often pass this way and see you 
always, oh, always alone, and I think you might like to have 
me come and see you once in a while. Would'n't you ? " 

David turned and lifted his head, as the sweet and mellow 
voice — so like one he once before had heard and loved, fell 
upon his ear. Some chord of memory was dimly stirred. He 
knitted his brow in a vain effort to recall the past, and the 
little maiden chattered of his roses and his garden, his dog and 
his squirrels. She told him of the beautiful grouse she had 
seen that morning and laughed gaily as she recounted the story 
of his dancing. David spoke no word. No smile lighted his 
countenance, but when she was ready to leave he walked with 
her, let down the portcullis and watched her ride away. 

For a long time he stood silently looking at the turn in the 
road where she and her pony disappeared, then turned and, 
walking slowly, entered his cabin. He walked no more that 
day in his garden, and all night he wandered about the moun- 
tains. Some echo of the past had disturbed his serenity and 
yet he could not understand. After this it often happened that 
Marion would visit her hermit. Always, if at home, at her call 
he would let down the bridge, and many a little comfort found 
its way to the solitary man from Susan's goodly store. That 
he never spoke nor smiled, disturbed Marion not at all. She 
supposed that was the way of hermits, and she laughed and 
chattered enough for two. She told him simple stories of her 
innocent and uneventful life, and sang to him her little songs, 
well repaid if he would utter an Indian word of praise or 
pleasure. She slipped her soft little hand in his when saying 
farewell, and he held it in a lingering clasp as if loath to let it 
go. 

And so the years, happy and uneventful, passed. Marion 
was sixteen — tall and straight as one of the mountain pines, 
with purple blue eyes and curling dark lashes; with golden, 



392 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

fluffy hair that grew up from her broad, white forehead in 
waves, like her mother's. She had also inherited from that 
mother a beautiful and sympathetic voice. To sing was the 
natural expression of her words. Grave or gay, happy or sad, 
Marion sang, and no bird of the valley warbled more sweetly. 

About this time it chanced that Madam IsTeble, the great con- 
tralto, worn out with an arduous season, needed complete rest 
and sought it at the Valley Inn. One morning early she heard 
Marion carolling beneath her window. She was interested at 
once and being ennuied, having absolutely nothing else to do, 
took great delight in training the young girl's voice. She 
could already play simple little accompaniments to her equally 
simple songs and hymns taught by Susan on the little old piano, 
and when ithe chilly days of October came and Madam Neble 
left the valley to resume her work Marion could sing as she 
never sang before. " You have a great career," said Madam. 
" When you are tired of the valley come to me and I will give 
you the teaching that will make of you one great prima donna." 
Marion treasured this in her heart. 

From this summer Gilbert Lee sent her music and books 
from the city, and during the long winter evenings after the 
tourist season had closed, her simple, household duties done, 
Marion read and studied and sang. With what pride and love 
Susan and her husband saw this child of their love developing 
into a lovely and talented woman ! It often happened that the 
Indian chieftains would come in, sit about the fire and smoke. 
John was in his element then. He led them on to tell their 
most cherished legends in their picturesque language: how the 
valley was once all valley, and one little hill sprang up at the 
call of the Great Spirit; how it grew and grew until it was a 
great mountain ; how they learned wisdom of all the wild crea- 
tures guided by the Great Spirit and were very happy and 
prosperous until the evil spirit came among them and made 
them quarrel and fight among themselves. Then a great and 
mighty thunder came, and the winds blew: the earth opened 
and swallowed up many people: waters spouted out and the 
great mountains cracked and broke and slid down into the val- 
ley and many were killed. Those left looked at the face of 
To-tau-kon-nu'-la on the great rock and it was angry. Then 



LATEK PEOSE WORKS 393 

they met together, smoked the peace pipe and divided their 
hunting grounds. After that there was peace and plenty. 
Sometimes, wrapping their blankets around them, they would 
lie down, feet to the fire, and rest all night. Sometimes it hap- 
pened that Gilbert Lee was fortunate enough to be at the Inn 
at these times and always alive to the unusual, he portrayed 
these children of the wilds in their native environment and 
many a choice canvas was the result. He, more by example 
than precept, taught Marion many of the little refinements of 
social life. To him she sang, and from him learned of that 
great world beyond the hills of which she knew nothing, and 
he unconsciously awoke in her an unquenchable desire to see 
for herself that unknown land. " Some day Gilbert," she 
said once, " some day I mean to go to the great city and. sing." 
And Gilbert would laugh and pat her head, fancying that she 
was still a child. In many ways she was an ignorant and, if 
you will, spoiled child, but it needed only a touch, as the folded 
bud springs open at the kiss of the sun, to transform that child 
into a woman, and it came all too soon. 

CHAPTER VIII 

SORROW IN THE VALLEY 

Thus peacefully and happily the years passed for Marion 
until the fall of 1905. Then came a great and unexpected 
change in the life of the girl. Susan McKinley had been 
gradually failing in health all summer. It had been unusually 
hot and dusty, swarms of tourists had come and gone, each new 
lot demanding and receiving constant attention. Cheerful, 
busy from morning until night, never complaining, Susan, as 
she would phrase it, " kept up." In vain did Mandy strive to 
relieve her of her onerous duties. Husband and daughter 
alike saw no change in her, and when one raw and chilly morn- 
ing in late October, after the last tourist had gone and the 
fierce winds of Autumn began to howl about the house, she 
failed to get up, they were both filled with consternation and 
self-reproach. Marion, realizing for the first time how many, 
many times she could have saved her mother's strength and did 
not, began to repay her in some measure for her care of her. 



394 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

She assumed at once the duties of the house, under Mandy's 
supervision, and John McKinley, dazed and bewildered by 
the strange happening of his Susan being ill, sat all day by 
her bedside, patting her hand and being comforted by her. 

At midwinter all intercourse with the outside world had 
long since ceased. Even Tom Kennedy had laid up his stage 
for the winter, and when he occasionally came to see how they 
fared he came on skis. Snow, piled in drifts thirty feet deep, 
filled the ravines. Every tree, shrub and branch along the 
now silent river was a marvel of beauty; like a snow-white, 
wedding ribbon, that erstwhile laughing, gurgling, bounding 
river now bound the valley. In the house the fires now were 
kept burning and curtains drawn, shutting out so far as possi- 
ble the wintry cold. Susan, lying upon her bed, smiled upon 
John, her beloved John, and Sweetheart, as they kept watch 
over her. Simple remedies failed to renew her strength, and 
doctors there was none in the valley. Daily, almost impercep- 
tibly, her strength declined, until one peaceful night when the 
stars shone with wonderful brilliancy in the cold blue vault of 
the sky they knew it for the last. 

Conscious of her failing powers Susan said to her husband, 
" Father, I think we must tell her. It may be when I am gone 
she will find some of her own people, and I think it right that 
she should know." 

-" Yes," he assented, " you are right ; but I cannot bear to 
lose her." 

" You will not lose her. Sweetheart will never leave you, 
not if she is the daughter of a king." 

The girl came in and sat down by the bed. Susan gently 
took her hand and fondled it as she talked. " My Sweetheart — 
my well-loved, little Sweetheart, I have something to tell you 
that must be told. Can you remember when you were a very 
little child, taking a wonderful stage ride ? Tom Kennedy was 
there and a sweet, beautiful, little mother like a sunbeam — 
who cradled you in her arms and sang to you — and a tall, 
dark father ? Try to remember, Sweetheart. That was when 
you came to the valley. Then you were very sick and we all 
nursed you. One dreadful night your father and mother went 
out to walk (for you are only our child in our love, Sweetheart). 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 395 

They wandered as far as Mirror Lake, and that was the last 
known of either of them alive. The next day your sweet and 
lovely mother was found lying dead, and by her side, strangled 
no doubt by your father's hands, was a great wild-cat. From 
that day to this we have never been able to find your father, 
and we think that, half crazed by grief, he wandered off in the 
mountains and was killed by wild beasts." 

She paused and kept gently, gently passing her frail hand 
over Marion's as it rested nerveless in her clasp. 

Marion's eyes were fixed on her mother's face and she asked 
but one question, " Who am I then ? " 

" Dearest, we do not know. We only know that your father 
was a Scotchman named David Campbell, and that your dear 
mother had been a singer, and this we only knew from her. Tell 
her, father, what she said." 

" She said that your father was brought up for the ministry 
in the strictest Scotch Presbyterian church: that he had taken 
a solemn oath never to marry, but when her mother died and 
she was left alone in London he married her, and always felt 
that he had committed the unpardonable sin — against the 
Holy Ghost, in breaking his vow. They left two suit-cases 
here. You shall see them later. Your father must have had 
his money and papers and tickets in his pocket, as there is noth- 
ing here to identify him. I advertised many times but had no 
reply ; so we took you in place of our own lost, little girl, and 
you have repaid us every day of your life." 

To Marion this, heard from dying lips and supplemented by 
her foster father, seemed scarcely real. Her first thought was, 
" How good, how good they have been to me." She laid her 
head on Susan's breast — where she had always wept out her 
baby sorrows and been comforted, and sobbed, " Dear — dear- 
est dear, and my daddy too, I love you, I love you for being 
so good to me, and God will surely bless you." 

" He has," said Susan faintly. " He has all the years, and 
now, Sweetheart, take care of Daddy — we have never been 
parted and he'll not stay away from me very long. This I 
know." 

" I will never, never leave him," sobbed Marion. " He 
shall be my first and only thought." 



396 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

" That is well, my little Sweetheart. 1 " 

Silence reigned in the room. Only the occasional falling of 
a burning log in the fireplace or the slipping of the drifts of 
snow about the windows broke the stillness. Day dawned, 
tardily, white and ghostly, and John knelt beside the bed, his 
gray head on Susan's pillow; her hand was lying over his 
breast. He was asleep — worn out with anxiety and sorrow, 
and so was she. With the dawn she had parted from them, and 
they had not known. Marion, overcome by days and nights 
of sleeplessness, had missed the one supreme moment when 
spirit and body parted. She had never seen death, and for her 
this gently smiling mother, with that strange radiance which 
sometimes glows upon the face of the dead still lingering there, 
whose last conscious moments had been a caress, had no terrors. 
Then and there, Marion ceased to be a child and took up her 
woman's work. Gently she folded Susan's dear hands on her 
bosom and woke her father, " Daddy dear, Daddy dear, come 
and comfort your little girl." 

To him the death of his dear wife was only a going before. 
Silently he rose and, going to his own room, closed the door. 
Later he returned to the living room. He had washed, and 
brushed his still beautiful hair, donned clean linen and smiled 
gently upon Marion who gazed at him in wonder, " She is 
only ahead a little way, daughter, I will soon catch up," he 
said cheerfully. " We traveled a long and sometimes weary 
road together, and now it seems to me such a little way — just 
around the turning." 

Mandy, heart-sorry but reticent as always, was a tower of 
strength in those days. Sam Lee had prepared a late break- 
fast, and they made a pretense of eating it, and then Marion and 
Mandy sat down to consider what was to be done. Burial was 
out of the question for weeks yet, even if she could get help to 
bury her mother. Her father she saw would be useless as a 
counselor, so wrapped in his dreams was he — but he said, 
" Do not despair, daughter ; there is never a door closed that 
another one is not opened. ' God's in his heaven, be the people 
ever so unquiet.' That has been a lot of comfort to me and 
you must always bear in mind that He'll find a way out for you." 

And this " way out " came even while he spoke, in the per- 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 397 

son of Tom Kennedy. Torn, who had grown uneasy about the 
family for some reason and now came in on skis to see for 
himself how they fared. Never was guest more welcome. 
John McKinley grasped his hand and turning to Sweetheart 
said, " See now, daughter, how our Father finds the way out. 
We were in sore trouble and distress, apparently no way out — 
no one to call on for help, just a little girl and a foolish old 
man : and your mother lying unburied. What happens ? Why, 
he sent one of his messengers to Tom Kennedy and he said, 
' Go to the Inn ; they're in trouble. Help them.' And Tom 
obeys and comes — the only man in the valley who would have 
been of any use and who knew and loved Susan." 

And Marion said to the bewildered man, " He wants you to 
know Mother died this morning and he is sure God sent you to 
help us. And it must be so because I need you so. What — 
what are we to do % " 

" Dear, dear," grieved Tom, " Susan gone — the dear good 
woman. I've never had a greater loss. I knew somethin' was 
goin' wrong here about. John, man, I'm sorry, sorry for you, 
and my little Sweetheart — well, well, well — the Lord sure 
was on His job when He sent me in here to-day. Can I see 
her?" 

Marion led the way, and Tom stood quietly looking at the 
peaceful sleeper still lying on her bed. 

" A good woman ! A good woman," he said, " and gone to 
her reward. She must 'a' seen some of the glories they talk 
about to get that light on her face." Wiping his eyes with his 
coat sleeve he turned and left the room. " We must just do the 
best we can, Sweetheart," he answered. "We can't get a 
coffin nor have a bury in' until spring opens, but we can manage 
somehow to make things more comfortable. Have Sam Lee 
get me a hammer and some nails out in the woodshed, and do 
you, Sweetheart, dress your dear mother in her prettiest dress 
and brush that pretty hair the way she always wore it. It'll 
do you good to fuss over her and to make her look so nice for 
father to see. Mandy will help you, I know," and Marion, 
who yesterday would have shuddered and cried over a dead 
bird, to-day bravely, tenderly took up her woman's task. 



398 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Chapter IX 



Under Tom's competent and busy hands a rude coffin was 
manufactured from packing boxes and neatly lined with white 
linen by Mandy, and in it Susan McKinley, robed in her black 
silk dress, with soft white lace about her neck and hands, 
smiled as she slept. In an upper chamber they laid their dead, 
and over it John read in a clear and triumphant voice the beau- 
tiful burial service, for to him had come the certainty that she 
" rested from her labors." Then they closed and locked the 
door until the spring freshets should enable them to place her in 
the little burial plot, now under many feet of snow. 

That evening, as they sat around the fire — John with a 
book on his knee but gazing into the fire and thinking his own 
thoughts ; Marion on a low chair by Tom's side, her hand on his 
knee as though she needed the assurance of his presence and 
help ; Mandy sitting by the lamp with lips tightly closed knit- 
ting as usual — Tom questioned, " What'll you folks do now % 
I reckon until spring opens you'll have to do the best you can 
and stay right here." 

" Yes," replied John, " I'll stay right here with Susan until 
she calls me. I guess I'll be going in the spring." 

" And leave me, Daddy ? " cried Marion. a You'll never do 
that ; you couldn't be so cruel." 

" Daughter, your life is before you, mine is lived. When 
our little Sweetheart died a part of our life went with her. It 
never came back and now Susan is gone — I don't see — I 
can't see how I can live without her. I'll do my best. I'm 
willing to do that for you, my little girl, but when God calls 
me I must go and you must not worry. When you were a 
little, little child, Sweetheart, and seemed to be left desolate, 
God had you in His care. He raised up your mother and me 
to love and care for you, and when He takes me away He'll 
not forget to see to you. Cheer up, my daughter ; the way's not 
very long for any of us at the longest, and there's never a 
trouble but there's a way out. Don't forget — don't you ever 
forget, whatever comes, the road that Susan set your little feet 



LATEK PKOSE WORKS 399 

on, and that she has traveled until it has led her to her heavenly 
home." 

After Tom left them, the days dragged on — days of empti- 
ness and sorrow, days in which all nature seemed only waiting 
and the inmates of the Inn as well. Nothing seemed worth 
doing until the sun melted and that dear but dead occupant up- 
stairs could be laid to rest. 

Daily John McKinley grew more silent and dreamy; he 
seemed himself to have almost entered the spirit world. Some- 
times he would talk of Susan as she was when he first met her, 
of her pretty ways, of her cheeriness, her gay and laughing 
girlhood, and then of her sweetness as a mother, her loveliness 
as a wife — Susan, always Susan. He would wander into the 
locked room and spend hours, coming out cold and shivering 
but with a smile on his face as though he had indeed held con- 
verse with his beloved wife. When the March winds howled 
around the house and the first warm days of coming spring 
began to melt the snow drifts and to unlock the river; when 
it broke its icy chains and sang its spring song of joy and glad- 
ness; when the early birds gathered on tree and bush and the 
earliest blossoms pushed up their lovely heads through the 
snow, John McKinley gently passed away. " God is calling 
me, you cannot keep me, I must go," he said to Marion, as she 
bent over him weeping, and once he put his hand on her bowed 
head and said, " God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." 

Tom Kennedy, the ever watchful friend, was with Marion 
during much of this time. It was he who arranged for the 
double funeral in the little God's acre, and notified all the valley 
folks, even the Indian friends, of the time when, side by side, 
John and Susan McKinley would be laid to rest. A dear old 
man who spent several winters in the valley because he loved 
it and could make others love it too, through his beautiful 
books, volunteered to read the burial service; and one still af- 
ternoon when the mountain tops were covered with golden 
gleams from the setting sun they buried them together. It 
was a small but picturesque gathering around that little en- 
closure — there were a dozen woodmen in flannel shirts and top 
boots. Indian chiefs and underchiefs in deerskin shirts and 
leggins, their faces painted in tones denoting sorrow; Tom's 



400 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

brother and family who lived some miles away; and on every 
face was sorrow for the passing away of the genial couple who 
had for so many years made the Valley Inn a house for so- 
journers and homeless alike. In the back-ground, under 
shadow of the trees, stood Ahweiha and her sister squaws, silent 
and sorrowful. 

Once again Tom Kennedy and Marion sat by the desolate 
hearth in the living room of the Inn. A glowing fire lit up 
and made cheerful the lonely apartment. Tom, his pipe in 
his mouth and hands on his knees, sat listlessly looking into 
the fire. Marion, a slender figure clothed in black, sat oppo- 
site, white and frail looking from the confinement and grief of 
that long winter. She clasped and unclasped her hands ner- 
vously. For some time neither spoke, and then Tom began to 
speak, " Sweetheart, you once said something to me about some 
satchels or something that your mother told you belonged to 
you. Do you know where they are ? " 

For an answer Marion went into the little room adjoining 
the living room and returned with two suit-cases. Both were 
travel-worn and decorated with many addresses in red, blue 
and white, acclaiming their foreign travels. Tom put them on 
the little table and opened them. In the one a suit of men's 
clothes, plain and serviceable and such other belongings as ap- 
pertain to the wardrobe of a gentleman, not a card or letter or 
address of any kind. Tom opened the other case and was at 
once apprised that it was the dwelling place of a lady's gar- 
ments. A faint, elusive odor of violets greeted his nostrils — 
a filmy gray silk with little violets strewn over its background 
dainty and fresh as when first worn came next. With a deli- 
cacy perhaps unexpected in our Tom, he withdrew his great 
red hands from the dainty apparel and said, " You take them 
out, Sweetheart. Maybe there's a card or money or some ad- 
dress." 

She lifted with reverent hands the filmy night gowns, the 
soft, fluffy, lace-trimmed garments so like the raiment of a 
large doll ; the tiny tan boots and silk stockings, and from the 
other corner little things, dainty and fresh for a baby girl — 
these Susan had evidently permitted Marion to wear and as 
she outgrew them replaced them in the case. In neither suit- 



LATER PROSE WORKS 401 

case was there the smallest mark by which Tom could identify 
Marion or her people. " Most likely," he muttered to himself, 
" he had his money and his letters in his pockets when he went 
out. Keep them, Sweetheart," he advised as he closed them. 
" They may come in handy some time ; they're of no use just 
now, put them away. Now, sit here by me and we'll talk. Let 
me smoke, I can all'as think better when I'm smokin'. Some- 
times I think women wouldn't be so nervous and fussy over 
little things if they'd smoke, though I don't know as I'd jest 
like to see this stinkin' old corn cob pipe of mine between your 
pretty lips, my girl. But that's not what I want to talk about. 
What do you want to do ? You can't stay here alone and run 
this house with only Mandy, can you ? " 

" I've been thinking that I'd go to the city," said Marion, 
" and learn to sing. When Madam Neble was here she taught 
me a great deal, and she said that I must come to her in the city 
and she would look out for me. She gave me this card. She's 
a great singer you know." 

" Years ago," interrupted Tom. 

" Yes, but I think she meant it and I think that she will take 
me with her. She was so kind." 

Tom was scarcely better acquainted with the outside world 
than the child beside him. His life was lived in the narrow 
bounds of the valley. He knew his " bronchs " — his stage 
route and his mountains and valleys — two or three times he 
had gone to " Frisco " and lived for a day or two in untold 
luxury at the " Bell and Cat," a small hostelry with a resplen- 
dent bar to which Tom at those times paid undivided attention 
— though when on duty he was absolutely responsible. Other- 
wise the city was an unknown country to him; of its dangers 
and its pitfalls he knew absolutely nothing. 

" Well," he remarked after puffing at his pipe for some time 
in silent thought, " Gilbert Lee's there, and if the Madam 
should fail you, not that I think she will, Sweetheart, but fe- 
males never can be built on — not for steadiness, you under- 
stand. ISTow there's my bronchs — Pedro has his stubborn fits 
and his runaway fits, all's in his blood; but when Pedro has 
found his master he knows it and no more didoes that drive 
for him ; but there's Kate : Lord love you, Sweetheart, just as I 



402 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

think I've got Kate down to her work and am settlin' for a good 
steady drive, what does Kate do? Why, she's up and away. 
She's on her hind legs one minute pawing the air, and has her 
head down and heels in the air the next, and jest as I'm mad 
enough to flay her alive she rolls the whites of her eyes at me 
and laughs. She does, Sweetheart, and then after she's had 
her fling she behaves like an angel. That's the woman of her. 
She can't help it. She's made that contrary. So don't you 
tie to your Madam altogether, but trust to Gilbert Lee. He's 
summered here a good many years and he's all right — I think 
I can get my brother to keep the Inn and I'm sure Mandy'll 
stay and keep things goin'. The rent of the house will keep 
you till you get going. You can't stay here anyway, and if 
the things don't turn out to your liking you can always come 
back. Your father said something to me about a deed in a tin 
trunk. Do you know anything about it ?" 

" There is a tin trunk in their room, but I have not opened 
it." 

" Now, Sweetheart, listen to me. I'm your friend and I'm 
honest if I ain't much else, and I can drive my bronchs as close 
to the edge and not slip off as any man. I alias bring my load 
safe through. You haven't anybody else, as I can see, to help 
you, and if you're willin' I'll have a look at them papers." 

In reply, Marion drew out the little tin trunk — dented and 
scarred by many years of travel — and lifted the lid. A little 
child's suit neatly folded lay upon the top, a little brown coat 
and hat, a bright plaid dress. " That's it ! " shouted Tom. 
" The very dress and hat you wore when you came in the stage 
that first time I saw you. I mind it all now ; that bright plaid 
dress and the pretty plume on the hat and the baby face under 
its brim." 

There were also a tiny pair of tan boots worn at the toes, a 
chain and watch, a ring and pin mementoes of the dead mother, 
probably taken from her after she was found and kept to 
identify the child if possible; beneath was a legal paper, duly 
signed, sealed and attested. Tom broke the seal. " To our 
dearly beloved adopted daughter Marion McKinley," it read in 
legal phraseology, " the house, lot and contents are bequeathed." 
Not a great fortune but it was all they had. Marion's tears fell 
fast as she read of this loving and tender gift. 



LATEK PROSE WOKKS 403 

Tom carefully examined the paper. " I ain't much of a 
scholar/' he declared, " and it seems to me to be all regular and 
above board, but I know a lawyer friend at Raymond who's as 
honest as they make 'em and I'll take it when I go again, have 
him look it over and record it. We musn't drive too near the 
edge, Sweetheart, for it's all that's left you. Now the next 
thing is, when can you go ? If Budd takes the house he'll want 
it early enough to get it cleaned and ready for summer trade." 

" I will go," said Marion, " as soon as we can get to the rail- 
road." 

" I guess we can make it by the middle of April. I ain't no 
great shakes a horseback myself these years. I'd rather have 
a step under my feet and six good ribbons in my hand, but I'll 
see you on the train all right. You can ride Dandy and I'll 
bring him back again." 

" Will you take care of him, Tom ? " 

" Sure, I will ; don't you fret about one single thing here, 
Sweetheart. I'll see to it all until you come home again, so, 
my girl, you and Mr. Pig-tail can get to work to-morrow packing 
up and putting away things, and the very first day that the 
drifts are melted so that I think we can make it I'll be on 
hand." 

Mandy came in from the kitchen and Tom acquainted her 
with their plans. She did not say much, that was never her way, 
but she looked at Sweetheart with set lips. " If you think you 
must go, Marion," she said — she never called her Sweetheart, 
because she thought if a girl had a name she'd ought to be 
called by it — " I'll stay and see to things here until you come 
back, for you'll come, I'm sure of that — " 

" Mandy," interjected Tom slyly, " Couldn't we keep her 
house for her ? " 

" Tom Kennedy," snapped Mandy, " talk sense or don't talk 
at all. I call'ate I'm able to keep house without the help of 
any man, let alone you." 



404 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

Chapter X 

LEAVING THE VALLEY 

When the April sun came out warm and bright, and early 
flowers began to peep through the fast melting snow, the little 
rivers to sing gladsomely, and all nature to join in the great 
jubilate, Marion left Mandy and Sam Lee in charge of the 
Valley Inn Hotel (under Mandy, of course) and with neces- 
sary luggage packed in the smallest compass, mounted her little 
Pinto, gentled by Tom so many years before and since then 
her almost daily companion, and accompanied by him, mounted 
upon " Pedro," began her journey, ignorantly fearless, into 
that great and unknown world for which she had longed and 
of which she had dreamed golden dreams. The roads were at 
their worst. In the valley the snow still lay in unbroken 
drifts impassable except on skis or horseback, but after they 
reached the State road travelling was better. They waded 
through snow, slid on ice, forded little running streams, break- 
ing through the rotting ice, and here and there in warm little 
nooks, Marion espied bits of verdure and tiny blue flowerets — 
liver-wort, waxen white, spring beauties, and through the 
woodlands the gay dogwood opening its waxy white cups to the 
sun. Tom spoke but little as they journeyed — as is the way of 
men who live in solitary places and commune with their own 
souls and nature, but before they reached Raymond he said, 
" It's a big world, Sweetheart, and mostly a bad one I reckon, 
from what I hear. Maybe you're putting your head in the 
lion's mouth. I don't know, I've never been outside of the 
mountains often and there I've alias found that straight living 
and a brave front will win out every time. Don't you forget 
that story your mother used to read about God shutting the 
lion's mouth when bad men threw Daniel in. What he done 
for him I reckon He'll do for you. I guess it was the innocence 
of Dan'l that saved him much as anything. Don't forget that, 
Sweetheart. Keep innocent and don't you forget your father's 
favorite line either, c God's in His Heaven ! ' But if you do 
get into trouble and want somebody maybe nearer, just you send 
a line to ' The Bell and Cat.' I'll get it somehow and I'll be 
on hand." 



LATEK PEOSE WOKKS 405 

" Tom ! Tom ! " cried the girl, " you're all that's left of the 
old life. I'm coming back, Tom, back to my dear mountains 
and you. I'll remember all you say and do all you say, and 
you're to take care of Dandy for me and you're not to worry, 
not one little bit. I've written to Madam, and she'll surely 
meet me at the station and I've got money, Tom, which Daddy 
gave me, such a lot, I think 'most a hundred dollars and I'll find 
Gilbert Lee — so dear, dear old Euss-box, don't worry. Look 
for me when the valley is all in bloom, for I don't think I can 
stay away then. Good-bye, Tom, good-bye." 

She threw her arms about his rugged neck and kissed his lips, 
to Tom's great embarrassment, though he hugged her closely. 
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and blew a great blast on his 
nose, turned from her and remarked that it was time for that 
train, and as he spoke the little train came rolling in, discharged 
its load of passengers, few at this time of year, and stood ready 
for the return journey. Tom saw the brave young face watch- 
ing through the car window; then he passed the back of his 
hand across his eyes, took Dandy's bridle rein in his hand, 
mounted Pedro, and resolutely turned his back on the train and 
rode away. And Marion, ignorantly fearless of that unknown 
land to which she was speeding, watched him out of sight 
through her tears. 

That night at midnight the train pulled into the grand depot. 
It had been delayed many hours by a washout, and now at this 
hour of darkness and danger Marion first found herself in the 
city of her dreams; terrified by the noise and confusion inci- 
dent to an incoming train ; the yelling of newsboys ; calling of 
their hotels by hackmen ; rumble of freight wagons ; women with 
baskets on their arms selling crumpets ; velvet-eyed Italian boys 
making a din on their hurdy-gurdies; Chinamen, slant-eyed, 
with long black queues everywhere; smart little Japanese look- 
ing like the " yellow jackets " of her mountains, darting about 
on innumerable errands ; bells clanging for belated meals from 
restaurant doors. Such a din! To Marion, who had never 
been beyond the confines of the valley — accustomed only to its 
great silence and the musical cadences of nature — the noise 
was deafening and confusing. Suit-case in hand, she stood 
looking helplessly about her. Following the crowd, she passed 



406 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

through the gate and into the waiting room. White-aproned 
waiters called their restaurant, " Supper — here's your nice 
hot supper." Madam Neble was not there. Marion was hun- 
gry — through the glass doors she saw inviting little tables with 
white cloths waiting the belated travelers. Still following 
the crowd she entered the door — was shown to a seat by a 
pompous head waiter, and gave her modest order as the other 
guests did. After she had eaten and paid her bill, tipping the 
waiter as she saw them do, she went back into the waiting room. 
What now was to be done? Madam, she thought, had come 
and, tired of waiting, had gone home. Where was her home ? 
She did not know that at that very hour Madam was resting 
after a great concert nearly three thousand miles away. She 
thought she would go to " The Bell and Cat " — Tom's only 
hotel. Surely that was best, but she found hacks and car- 
riages had departed whilst she was in the restaurant. She 
stood upon the sidewalk alone at midnight in that great city, 
unafraid because she knew nothing to fear; puzzled a little, 
that was all. Accustomed in her life to reading the heavens, 
she glanced at the moon, shining dimly through a yellow halo 
— a sinister circle of green surrounded that. Faintly the stars 
gleamed through gathering mist. " Weather-breeder," she 
muttered. "We'll have a storm before morning." Anxious 
to reach her hotel, she walked a little way beyond the platform 
of the depot and glanced helplessly around. To her great joy 
she saw a familiar figure approaching her. It was Mr. Tykes, 
who had several times toured the valley with gay parties of 
women and men. He was short and stout and slightly bald, 
with a good natured face, rather flabby and full, with singu- 
larly red lips. She at once recollected him and how pleasant 
he had always seemed. He was dressed neatly and a large 
anchor chain with many charms glistened on his rotund person. 
Unhesitatingly, Marion spoke his name. His dark eyes lighted 
with surprise and pleasure as he recognized her. 

" Why, bless my soul, if it isn't my little Sweetheart of the 
valley! How on earth did you get here? Well, well, I am 
surprised. Of all things ! And how and where are your good 
father and mother ? " 

Eagerly Marion greeted him, overjoyed to see a familiar 



LATEK PROSE WORKS 407 

face in that strange city, and told her simple story. " I am all 
alone; my dear father and mother are gone and I have come 
in to study under Madam Neble. Somehow, the train being 
late, I missed her, hut I must go to ' The Cat and Bell ' hotel 
and to-morrow I will find her." 

"• Your father and mother gone, how ? " 

Marion's eyes filled. " They died this winter, and Tom and 
Mandy helped me bury them. I am all alone ! " 

" Alone, poor, pretty, little kid." A gleam of satisfaction 
passed over his face and his manner changed — became more 
masterful. " You cannot go to a hotel at this hour," he said 
aloud. " That would never do. I will take you to a friend's 
house for to-night and in the morning we'll look up that hotel. 
I don't recall hearing of it." He gave a shrill whistle through 
his fingers and it was answered very soon by a cab suddenly 
appearing from somewhere and drawing up to the curb. Mr. 
Fykes handed Marion in, gave some direction to the driver and 
seated himself beside her. " This is a find," he said, laugh- 
ing. " I came to the depot to meet a friend, that friend doesn't 
come; you came to meet a friend and your friend doesn't 
come; then I meet you and it's all right." 

Over cobblestone pavements the cab rumbled and jolted, up 
the steep inclines, down the slopes, farther and farther away 
from the city lights and the main street. The night was om- 
inously still. The moon with its yellow ring gleamed dully 
from a pitch-black sky, here and there sickly gas or electric 
lights shone, seeming rather to accentuate the darkness than to 
illuminate it. A few belated citizens trod the deserted streets; 
here and there a door opened and a man or two men staggered 
out; once Marion saw a woman come out. She was leading a 
child by the hand, and a man was staggering beside her. As 
they went on up the rough hill, lights became more frequent. 
Policemen in uniforms, their stars gleaming on their breasts, 
stood on every corner, and through the silence of the night came 
a discordant singing and shouting from a group of young men 
making their uncertain way home. " For we're jolly good fel- 
lows," they sang. " We'll dance all night till broad day light 
and go home with the girls in the morning." 

" Is it always like this ? " asked Marion, shrinking nearer to 



408 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

her protector. " The town so noisy, so full of drinking men 
and sad women ? " 

" Pretty much so — pretty much. It's a great city, and all 
great cities must have their fun. Those young fellows now — ■ 
as soon as they sow their wild oats, they'll settle down and be 
respectable citizens." 

" It seems to me," Said Marion, " if they sow wild oats they'll 
likely reap a crop of wild oats. In the valley we always reap 
as we sow." 

" That's so, that's so in the valley, but you're not in the valley 
now and before another day dawns you'll realize that fact, and 
see stranger sights than a few drunken men." He little real- 
ized how terribly that prophecy would be fulfilled before 
another day. 



Chapter XI 

THE EARTHQUAKE 

He rapped upon the glass window, and the cab drew up to 
the curb before an unpretentious but massive doorway and 
stopped. Electric lights glowed through ground-glass globes 
softly upon the mosaic pavement of the vestibule, a grilled iron 
door of exquisite workmanship guarded the entrance; through 
its interstices a Venetian lantern of many colored glasses shed 
its prismatic lights. Cabby paid and dismissed, Mr. Fykes 
rang the bell once — twice — three times ; almost instantly the 
door swung on its noiseless hinges and they passed up a broad 
and beautiful marble stairway to an elevator in the rear of the 
hall. This they entered and were shot up several stories. 
Marion clung to Mr. Fykes with nervous fingers. She had 
never before seen an elevator, much less been in one. " It's all 
right," he said protectingly, as to a little child ; " we'll get 
out in a moment — there we are — " and when they merged 
from the cage it was to pause before a brilliantly illumined 
salon. To Marion's unaccustomed eyes it was fairy-land. At 
the far end of a dais, screened by palms, a band was playing 
gay and charming music, little tables glittering with snowy 
napery and cut glass were scattered about the room, and at most 



LATEE PKOSE WOKKS 409 

of them sat men and women in full evening dress. Roses 
filled the numerous vases, and garlands of roses adorned the 
many long mirrors which reflected the gay scene on all sides. 
Cut glass chandeliers with pendant prisms were aglow with 
lights. Little nooks and corners screened off hy costly and 
gorgeous portieres gave a glimpse of easy chairs, lounges and 
tables; from the tessellated ceiling hung gilded cages in which 
many a bird swung and sung in the brilliant light. The room 
seemed full of people. Everybody was laughing and talking at 
once. Some were playing cards ; wine bottles and glasses filled 
with sparkling liquor were upon each table, and were being 
constantly refilled by the stolid white-coated China boys. Mr. 
Fykes watched Marion intently. ~No smallest expression of her 
face escaped his scrutiny, but he read only wonder and delighted 
surprise at the beauty of the scene. Standing at the open door 
in her brown travelling suit, with her brown toque upon her 
fluffy golden hair, she looked like a little wild partridge who 
had fluttered by chance into a covey of birds of Paradise. 
The women were exquisitely gowned, silks and satins in soft and 
lovely tints, or vivid reds and blues, rare and costly jewels upon 
alabaster necks and rounded arms; beautiful hands alight with 
priceless rings, beautifully coiffured hair; all young, most of 
them beautiful, sat at the tables or strolled about with their 
partners — men older or younger than they, some very young, 
some with bald heads and a sprinkling of gray in their beards, 
all bearing upon their faces the ineffaceable marks of dissipa- 
tion. Presently, as they stood surveying the scene, a lady 
elaborately gowned came to Mr. Fykes and Marion. She wore 
black lace over white satin and many jewels. Once she must 
have been beautiful, and still retained her superb form and fine 
eyes. Nature, or art, had given her an imposing figure. She 
was large and stately and as she advanced towards them she 
cast an inquiring glance at Mr. Fykes. He replied by an al- 
most imperceptible lifting of the eyebrows. 

" Madam Conte," he said genially, " I found my little friend 
of the Valley Inn on a belated train coming into the city. She 
has no friends in the city — so I brought her to you. Can you 
put her up for the night ? " 

" Indeed, yes, for half a dozen nijhts," replied the lady, 



410 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

tapping Marion's gloved hand in a friendly pat. " Such a 
pretty little girl. Have you had supper, my dear ? " 

" I had something at the depot," said Marion. " What a 
wonderful place! This is all so new to me. How beautiful 
everything is ! Mr. Fykes did not tell me that you had a party 
to-night." 

The woman smiled at Mr. Fykes and he smiled back whimsi- 
cally. " A daughter of the Wilds — a daughter of the Wilds." 
" I will show you to a room." 

" Oh, no, no ; let me sit here and watch this enchanting scene, 
mayn't I ? I did not think there were so many beautiful 
women in the world," begged Marion. Perhaps there was a 
tinge of sadness in madam's voice as she answered, " Yes, many 
of them are beautiful. Would you not like to dress in such 
lovely clothes and be lovely like they are ? Fine feathers make 
fine birds, you know." 

" I would rather sing, oh yes, a thousand times. I don't think 
I could be happy all the time dressing and dancing. I have 
come to San Francisco to study music with Madam Neble." 

" So," — madam's tone was a trifle colder — " well, sit here 
and watch the dancing and I will see you again, presently. Mr. 
Fykes, you're wanted at the 'phone." 

Left alone, Marion's eyes followed the everohanging throng, 
and as she grew more familiar with the scene she began to in- 
dividualize it and to understand that this was not as she at first 
supposed, a fashionable party, but more in the nature of a 
restaurant, for she noticed men ordering drinks of the soft- 
gliding, white-uniformed waiters, slant-eyed China boys, and 
tipping them. At a table near her sat a beautiful girl alone. 
She wore a black velvet gown above which her lovely neck and 
arms gleamed ivory white; a single American Beauty rose, 
vivid red, glowed above her bosom; pearls were on her neck 
and twined in her magnificent black hair. It waved and 
rippled back from a broad, white and noble brow. Soft black 
eyes full of sadness rested on Marion as she sat resting her 
elbow on the table and her chin in the cup of her hand. Pres- 
ently she spoke, without altering her position in the very least, 
and her voice was sweet and low. 

" Little girl, who brought you here ? Do not turn or seem 



LATER PEOSE WORKS 411 

to speak to me; we are under espionage here, answer quietly." 
" Mr. Fykes brought me," Marion replied. " The train was 
late, I was alone ; my friend did not meet me. He said I could 
spend the night here and in the morning he would take me to 
find my friend." 

" You too ! You too ! " sighed the girl. " Listen to me, 
you must not stay here, to-night. You must not. Go any- 
where, but don't stay here. The doors are guarded. Work 
your way quietly near to the large door. Watch your oppor- 
tunity and, perhaps, you can slip out unseen. Get out, and 
when you do, hail a policeman and he will take care of you. 
Don't turn your head this way. If you don't get out to-night 
you never will. Don't look so frightened, guard your face. 
They are watching us." With a gay abandon totally at vari- 
ance with her actions of a moment ago, the girl sprang to her 
feet and began to sing in a rich and lovely voice some college 
song. She was greeted by hand clappings, stampings and 
cheers, cries of, " Lola is singing. Go on, Lola, more ! " She 
said to Marion sotto voce, " Do not leave this room, except by 
that front door, go ! go ! go ! " 

Fearful of — she knew not what — Marion prepared to obey 
her new friend by gradually lessening the distance between 
herself and the front door. This was not easy. The band 
struck up a waltz and instantly the room was full of laughing, 
jostling, staggering couples. Wine was also doing its work, and 
some of the guests were getting boisterous and quarrelsome. 
She saw a girl in red satin thrown over the table at which she 
had been sitting as she tossed a glass of wine in her partner's 
face. Another damsel, elaborately gowned, slapped the round 
and ruddy cheeks of her bald-headed companion. Madam, de- 
tained by some irregularity in the service, did not return, nor 
did Mr. Fykes. Marion, thoroughly frightened, knew then 
that he did not intend to return. Swiftly time passed. 
Faster and faster the band played, more noisy and uproarious 
grew the throng as they danced and sang, stamping their feet 
and clapping their hands at intervals. Marion found her pro- 
gress impeded at every step. Finally, the band began playing 
the last number, the grand march, and called to the whirling 
couples to fall into line. The first faint streaks of day gleamed 



412 THE OLD SCBAP BOOK 

through an uncurtained window. Each man grasped a partner 
and there was a squabble as to who should lead. " I'll lead." 
"No, I." "You led last time." "No, I." "Here's the 
leader," shouted the girl in red satin. " She the little partridge ; 
she shall lead to-night ! Here's fun. Glory be — Bill, Joe, 
take her by the arms and trot. Let the lamb lead us to the fold." 
The suggestion was at once adopted. Bill and Joe — two young 
half-tipsy men from some higher walk in life out for a good 
time — seized Marion's arms ; between them she was dragged 
to the head of the line amid loud laughter and cheers and the 
march began — around and around the spacious room — up 
and down, winding in and out through maze after maze — - 
romped that gay crowd, Marion in the van. At first she strug- 
gled in the grasp of the men, in the melee her hat fell off and 
her hair tumbled about her shoulders. Once aware of the 
uselessness of struggling, she ceased ; steadied herself, lifted 
her haughty little head and like a captive queen, captive but not 
conquered, shook off the men's hands and marched between them. 
The faint mist of early morning stealing in made the lights 
grow dim — that day of doom was dawning, but to Marion it 
seemed darkest night. Suddenly, to the tortured soul came 
a remembrance of an old verse her father was fond of quoting, 
" God's in His heaven, be the people never so unquiet." As 
a hand laid upon a lute unstrung at once silences the discord, 
as the gentle dew falling upon a thirsty plant, as a great rock 
in a weary land, so this reminder of her early and happy days 
coming to the girl who had grown among her mountains with a 
deep religious faith in the power of the Almighty and His will- 
ingness to help, in this hour of danger and terror stilled the 
beating of her heart — no longer struggling or desiring to strug- 
gle, assured of help in time of need. As they passed the dais 
where the band still played she suddenly sprang upon it. Im- 
pelled by some power outside and beyond all thought of her- 
self or her surroundings, she began to sing. Sweet and loud 
and clear, as the notes of the skylark when he rises soaring to 
the sky and pouring down his liquid music, rose Marion's noble 
voice in an impassioned cry to the only Power she knew and 
trusted. " God is my refuge and strength," she sang rejoic- 
ingly ; " a very present help in trouble ; therefore will not I fear 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 413 

— will not I fear." Sweet and clear, like some marvelously 
attuned instrument, rang out the challenge. Men and women 
paused, ceased their laughing, scoffing and jeering, called from 
the painted and sordid life of which they were a part — called 
by that wonderful voice so full of trust and confidence, to a life 
higher, holier, nobler, to protection of innocence ; though she 
did not know it, Marion was from that moment safe — safe as 
in her little white bed at home, and still she sang, " I will not 
fear though the earth be removed and the mountains be carried 
into the midst of the sea — though the waters thereof roar 
and be troubled — though the mountains shake — " What was 
this ? Had her God indeed answered that childish cry for help ? 
or did they imagine — that awestruck crowd — that the floors 
rose and fell and wavered beneath their feet; that the walls 
surged inward ? Was that low and rumbling thunder overhead 
or underfoot ? — ? No time for any more queries. Like 
the sides of an accordion the walls of the room seemed to fold 
together and spread apart, pictures fell from their moldings, 
windows from their frames. All the lights went out, tables 
and chairs, bric-a-brac and dishes, piled in heaps upon the 
trembling floor — doors so lately guarded fell from their hinges 

— with a great crash the elevator went down and chaos reigned ! 
JSTow they knew. With a great and bitter cry of " The Quake ! " 
" The Quake ! " the terror-stricken crowd began fighting their 
way — panic driven — to the fallen door. Forgotten was Ma- 
rion — forgotten everything in the mad rush for life and safety. 
Screaming — crying — praying — cursing, that erstwhile gay 
and laughing throng fought down the flights of stairs now only 
for life. The new day was dawning as they emerged from the 
building. In its pure light those painted girls in tawdry finery, 
those men with pallid, world-worn faces, still in evening dress, 
seemed citizens of another world. In their midst Marion was 
borne onward like a stray leaf. Scarcely had they emerged 
from the doorway when, with a shuddering scream as of some 
monster in mortal agony, the house fell. With cries of terror 
they saw the clouds of dust rising from the fallen building and 
began calling for friends — sisters — brothers — were they all 
safe ? Who was buried under that wreck ? Whose were those 
groans and screams of agony? Questions not to be answered 



414 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

for many days. Another tremor and still another, coming at 
intervals. The crowd rushing to the middle of the street pushed 
on, they knew not whither — and were met by another crowd, 
fleeing like themselves from wrecked and falling houses. Some- 
body yelled, " The Park ! The Park ! " and all faces turned to- 
wards that goal as perhaps the safest spot. If safety was any- 
where it was there, even though great fissures were opening at 
their feet. No tall buildings to topple down, no fires to burn 
them; only God's trees in the blessed garden, and now in this 
hour of horrors another and perhaps greater one befell the 
doomed city — fires broke out. South and west — first a tall 
slender shaft of flame darting upward — then another — and 
another — and yet another, until the sky was red and a pall 
hung over the southern part of the city. Strange sights were to 
be seen on all sides, to be recalled and laughed at later by the 
fortunate ones. A woman with an empty parrot cage pushed 
and jostled everybody who impeded her progress. A mother 
frantically grasping her naked baby by one foot came next, the 
little tot had evidently been interrupted in his bath. Million- 
aires and hobos walked side by side and exchanged ideas. They 
were in strangest garb, — pajamas, overcoats, bath robes — one 
stately gentleman in blue gingham pajamas and a tall silk hat. 
Women in kimonos, overcoats, shawls, blankets — and many 
who had wisely dressed in their warmest clothing, instinctively 
preparing for the unknown trials yet to come. The privileged 
classes — privileged no longer — fell in line with weary night 
laborers returning from their work, and all were kindly and 
helpful one towards another in this exodus. Each recurring ter- 
ror produced a fresh panic, but as it became evident that they 
were getting less severe and less frequent that wonderful opti- 
mistic spirit of the Californian began to assert itself and every- 
body began talking to everybody else, telling of their experiences, 
laughing at themselves and each other. No one believed that 
any great harm could befall their cherished city. A little quake, 
a little fire — a scare and nothing more. So they reasoned as 
they, almost gaily, trod the streets, wending their way towards 
the park. And many of them dared to return to their aban- 
doned homes and collect necessary clothing and food for them- 
selves and their families. California — great and wonderful 



LATEE PKOSE WOKKS 415 

— never so great, or so wonderful as on these days of her calam- 
ity, when she rose to undreamed of heights! 



Chapter XII 

IN THE PARK 

Among the throng pouring out of the doomed building, borne 
up by the crowd, unafraid of earthquake or of fire, still un- 
consciously singing, came Marion. " Though the earth be 
moved and the mountains fall in the midst of the sea, I will not 
fear — I will not fear," her voice rang out clear and strong like 
the call of a bugle — the light of divine faith was in her eyes, 
her head was carried erect and she might have been Miriam 
leading the victorious hosts in the great deliverance, so noble 
was her mien. No longer " Sweetheart " the little country 
girl, she was, as she believed, God's special charge, rescued 
from great peril at her call. She did not question. She only 
believed. As her clear and triumphant voice rang out, the 
people passed and looked in wonder at this girl who could sing 
in the face of this great calamity. Among the throng hurrying, 
pushing, rushing with the rest, was one who knew that voice, 
who had carefully trained it in gentler times and more peace- 
ful scenes. He was pushed by the crowd almost into her arms. 
One glance, one glad cry of " Gilbert, Gilbert," and her arms 
were thrown around his neck. All heroism was gone. She 
was' no longer the triumphant Miriam singing her hymn of 
gratitude for deliverance, only a poor forlorn little country girl 
with fluffy, flying hair crying on his shoulders. " Take me 
home, oh, take me home! I have been so frightened." And 
then and there a strange thing happened to Gilbert Lee, the mid- 
dle-aged artist he who was " wedded to his art." With light- 
ning rapidity before him passed the summers in Ahwahnee; 
he saw again the desolate little child — the growing girl — the 
sweet and pretty maiden with whom he had so often played 
and studied and rode among the mountains and valleys of her 
home, and he knew — as her clinging arms were about his neck 
and her tremulous voice besought his help that here — here — 
in all this tumult, with the earth trembling under his feet and 



416 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

the skies red with dooming flame — when all were leaving all 
their possessions and fleeing to save their lives — that he had 
found the pearl of great price, the one woman in the world for 
him. More destructive than the earthquake, more devastating 
than the fires raging beyond, destroying and uprooting all his 
future plans, in the glance of an eye, the cry of a voice, the 
touch of a maid's arms — in a moment's time was this miracle 
wrought. 

But not here or now was the place or time for loving. Gently 
disengaging her arms and still holding her hands he drew her 
a little way out beyond the crowd and said, " My little Sweet- 
heart, how came you here ? " 

" Take me away," she sobbed, " I have had a great and ter- 
rible deliverance. Take me home, Gilbert, take me home." 

Noting her nervous condition, Gilbert asked no more ques- 
tions but gently soothed her. " Come, come, my brave little 
girl, we must move on. The crowd will trample on us if we 
don't. You are quite safe now with me. I was on my way 
to the Park to find my sister Mollie and her family. They 
must be under the trees somewhere by now. We'll soon find 
them. Brace up, little Sweetheart." 

They threaded their way towards the Park where already, with 
true American optimism and pluck, families were beginning to 
settle in groups, under the budding trees, rigging up tents of 
shawls, coats, blankets, awnings, anything that could be pro- 
cured readily, and children who had been roused from sleep 
one short hour before were already laughing and playing in 
happy ignorance of the terrible drama being enacted in their 
beloved city. Like some Mayday festival the street was 
thronged with a cosmopolitan crowd, all headed for the Park as 
promising most safety. Nobody for one moment believed that 
the earthquake and fires were very serious ; true, a few houses 
had fallen and a few fires started, but that was all. The fire 
department had never yet failed to subdue fires and would not 
now; and as for the earthquake, that was soon over. Marion 
clung to Gilbert's hand like the country child she was, and after 
a weary walk they came to a little group sheltered by a clump 
of acacias — in full and fragrant bloom — Mollie Archambeau 
and her three children — Gilbert, four years old, a slender hand- 



LATER PROSE WORKS 417 

some, graceful boy ; little Billy, chubby and stocky, ready even 
now to demand and fight for his rights ; and a pretty baby girl 
laughing and crooning in her mother's arms. The husband 
Prof. Giles Archambeau — tall, slender, precise, wearing a 
pince-nez — as carefully dressed as though he had just emerged 
from his dressing room, was already busy getting his camera 
in working order to take the first photographs of the doomed 
city, and in his mind's eye he saw his book (the earliest pub- 
lished) bring him great honor and some coin. He was a 
photographer, writer, poet and dilettante, generally and inci- 
dentally a kind husband and father — never given to collecting 
much of the root of all evil (and good), or to worrying much 
because he had it not. He greeted Gilbert and Marion, and 
explained that he must " rush things " while the town was so 
alive and the fires burning, and would Gilbert " see to Mother 
and children ? " 

Gilbert smiled, kissed his sister and the boys and drew Marion 
into the circle. Mollie was laughing and talking to the babies. 
She was a round, rosy, smiling, brown-eyed little woman — the 
sweetest thing on earth — a cheerful, unselfish, loving wife and 
mother, and Gilbert loved her dearly. He commended Marion 
to her care and then left to begin a search, which was to last for 
many weary hours, for his brother Charlie, and some wagon or 
vehicle of any sort to move their trunks from their deserted 
home. To Marion this happy family group was a revelation. 
She had never known children except the curled and pampered 
darlings who occasionally toured the valley with their parents, 
and the little black-eyed papooses in their beaded Indian cra- 
dles — and these children, so different from those, were a joy 
to her. She was so cordially included in the family that before 
an hour had passed she felt at home. Little Gilbert and Billy 
were listening to her stories, and the baby was coaxed to her 
knee. Mollie unobtrusively, but none the less carefully, re- 
garded her with a loving sister's intuition. Something in the 
glance of her brother's eye — the tone of his voice, the protecting 
hand with which he led Marion to her — informed her that 
here was no stranger casually encountered and brought to her 
to be cared for, but a maiden to be cherished — her brother's 
first love — whether she knew it or not — and Mollie was sure 



418 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

she did not. She was an innocent, high-minded girl, unused to 
the world and its ways and should he her special care, and if 
in her innocent heart Mollie felt a little jealous that the one 
to whom she had so long been first should now in his mature 
manhood turn to this young girl, she made no sign. 

Those days in the Park when the heavens ringed them around 
with flames, blood red; and clouds of smoke hid the sun from 
their eyes as the fires unsubdued still raged ; spreading, spread- 
ing and everspreading, leaping streets, doubling up fireproof 
sky-scrapers like children's toys! Now they crossed Market 
Street — now another and another, until everybody cried out 
that South San Francisco was doomed, but Van Ness Avenue 
would bound it ; and when, defying all power and all prophecy 
— when the wells cracked by the 'quake gave out, and no water 
was to be had, and firemen and helpers stood helpless and saw 
that devastating fire shoot straight across the broad and beau- 
tiful avenue, the high wind carrying sparks and burning coals 
in its wake, a great and bitter cry arose ; but again, California 
to the Rescue ! Wet blankets were spread over homes that might 
yet be spared; blast after blast told of blowing up of houses 
to save others. All day and all night they labored, -these men 
of the West ; hungry and weary and sleepless, counting none of 
these privations if only at last they could save their beloved 
city. Police were organized, deputies sworn in, crooks were 
shot down on sight. No water was to be had, no fire, no lights, 
and for three days and nights the city woke and slept and 
woke again to such discomfort as they had never known, but 
even the children accepted the situation with wonderful stoi- 
cism. They laughed and played and slept under the trees on the 
soft sward, and so far had enough food to quiet hunger. Some- 
how Mollie had procured a little oil stove, some sausage from 
a meat shop as yet unburned, and some rolls from a baker's 
wagon. The red-hot, sizzling " dogs/' sandwiched between 
the halves of a roll, made breakfast ready. How good it was ! 
Never had Marion tasted anything so delicious as those sau- 
sage sandwiches, and the children agreed. Like children, they 
all ate their impromptu meal, laughed and sang, and all the 
people about them were doing the same thing. The wonder- 
ful California spirit was abroad. They were "making the 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 419 

best of it." Every little while another tremor shook the earth, 
fiercer and wilder grew the fires which laid proud San Fran- 
cisco low, and yet on the sidewalks and in the streets this 
marvelous people laughed and chatted and fried sausages for 
breakfast, or went without, if none were to be had, cheering 
themselves and their friends and not once giving way to sor- 
row or despair. Gilbert was gone many hours, then he reap- 
peared, tired and footsore, to ask if they had seen Charlie. No, 
they had not. " I don't worry about him/' said Gilbert. 
" He's sure to turn up all right somewhere, but I must find him 
and beg, borrow or steal some kind of a wagon to transport my 
canvases and your trunks to some safer place," and he was gone 
again. 

The sun rose high in that strange looking sky. Smoke from 
the various fires rose in long and wavering lines like the coils of 
some mighty serpent encircling the city; the noon hour came 
and passed, and the long twilight was upon them and still under 
the trees they waited and watched. As the fire ate its way, roar- 
ing, leaping, ever bursting its bounds, and firemen stood helpless 
for lack of water; when the low rumble of the earth beneath 
their feet and the sharp, detonating blasts of dynamite, as 
house after house was blown up, and the savage roar of the 
ever-rushing fires broke upon the silence of that beautiful park, 
the crowd, so brave and so hopeful until now, grew quiet and 
gathered their little ones closer to their arms. They began to 
realize that a great and awful calamity was upon them — that 
devastation and death had come into their midst. Men left 
the streets and parks and offered their services as firemen and 
deputy policemen ; women had fearlessly re-entered their aban- 
doned homes and packed trunks, baskets, sheets, anything to 
be had, with necessary and most needed clothes. All superflu- 
ous luxuries were left. In that hour all silverware, bric-a-brac, 
pictures and jewelry seemed so trivial and needless that, without 
a sigh of regret, they were abandoned. Then began the screech 
— screech of dragging trunks and boxes over the pavements, 
which sounded ceaselessly all day and all night. Mothers re- 
turned, weary and hungry, to their children left in the park or 
on the hills — many weeping for friends they could not find. 
Three days — no light, but little water and less food. In all 



420 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

that time no face was washed. The precious water was hoarded 
too carefully. In the evening of the first day Gilbert returned 
with Charlie, whom he had found fighting fires. He looked it 
— hands black and blistered, face scarred from falling timbers 
and smudged besides, clothes torn and burnt — but with the 
undying twinkle in his bright blue eyes ; Charlie with the high- 
bridged nose and mouth drooping at the corners, the born humor- 
ist, the j oiliest companion, always telling some story to some- 
body — gay and reckless and dear to his family. Marion had 
seen him several times when he had come to the valley to see 
Gilbert and now greeted him with joy. " Hello, Sweetheart ! " 
he cried with a rollicking chuckle. " When I heard you were 
here, I hurried so fast that the wind blew straight through my 
ribs." 

" Uncle Charlie," whispered Gilbert, Jr., " how could the 
wind blow through your ribs ? " 

" Like it was a picket fence, Gilbert, my lad — but, Sweet- 
heart, what a great girl, and pretty too — just a match for your 
Uncle Charles. Wish I might find some water nearer than the 
Pacific Ocean to wash up a bit. Mollie, good girl, let me have 
a few drops of that precious fluid. Giles got a pail somewhere 
and will get some more. How's my brave boy ? " — to Gilbert, 
Jr., climbing on his knee — " and little Billie " — lifting him 
up and giving him a resounding kiss which that young gentle- 
man fiercely resented — " and my baby. I declare ain't this a 
picnic ? I've brought some grub, let's have supper." 

From one pocket he dislodged a loaf of bread, from another 
a bottle of milk and a long string of bologna sausages. The chil- 
dren greeted each parcel with a yell of joy. 

" Where did you get them, Uncle Charlie ? " asked Gilbert, 
Jr. 

" Well, you see, Gilbert, Jr., as I was passing a bakery a 
window fell in and so did I, and when I came out all that bread 
came too." 

■" But the sausages — the sausages, Uncle Charlie % " 

" Oh, the sausages — well, that window wasn't so obliging, 
but I chanced to see a butcher making off with his meat to a 
safe place. I offered to help — and I canned the sausages — " 

Laughing as everybody always did at Charlie's nonsense, not 



LATER PROSE WORKS 421 

so much at what he said as his way of saying it, Mollie ar- 
ranged the simple meal — but it was a silent crowd except the 
children that sat about on the grass and ate the purloined sau- 
sages. 

Then the men went again to fight fire, and when they re- 
turned and laid down under the improvised tents and shadowing 
trees they spoke no word of cheer. 

Chapter XIII 

THE CALL 

Those wonderful nights under the shelter of the Park, when 
the families gathered in groups — millionaires and laborers, 
side by side — lying under the trees, the placid moon riding 
high in the heavens and the stars glowing with unusual bril- 
liancy! Little Gilbert, lying in his uncle's arms, was chiefly 
interested in this new experience. " Uncle Charlie," said he, 
" don't you love to lie in the open and listen to the still ? I 
wish we could stay here forever and forever — I have such 
great thoughts." 

" Great thoughts, Gilbert ? What great thoughts do you have, 
lad?" 

" Well, I think the moon up there must be God's hand blessing 
the people, like the minister does in church, and I think He 
has lighted all those little stars because we haven't any other 
lights; and, Uncle Charlie, I was thinking of a boy I saw to- 
day. He slew a cat with a stone, and I told him, ' You've taken 
what you can never give back — you've taken a life/ and he 
said, ; Rot.' What is life, Uncle Charlie ? " 

" Life — Gilbert — why life is — that's the question wise 
men have been asking through the ages and I've never heard the 
answer yet." 

"Uncle Charlie?" 

" Now look here, lad, if you don't shut up and go to sleep 
you can't go to the city with me to-morrow." 

Instantly the little philosopher was all boy. " Oh, may I, 
uncle ? Will Mother let ? I'm asleep already ! " 

" Headed him off that time! " ejaculated Charlie, sotto voce. 
" Thank the Lord." 



422 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

When morning dawned half the city was in ruins. At early 
dawn Charlie started out to find a conveyance of some kind 
to rescue their baggage from the street. About noon he re- 
turned with an old express wagon and an older horse. " Here 
we are, ladies and gentlemen, trunks and boxes, bags and bag- 
gage. I bought the wagon and stole the horse or bought the 
horse and stole the wagon, I don't know which, and I met 
Colonel Bury on the street and he insinuated that if we could 
get to the Presidio our Uncle Sam might wink at our using 
a cottage and perhaps feed us into the bargain. I saw Giles 
out on the hillside taking pictures, and I think he's forgotten 
that he ever had a family. I found Gil and sent him on ahead 
to pre-empt that cottage, so, good people, let's trek." 

As Charlie's news was retailed, not alone the Archambeau 
family but scores of others took up the trail towards the Pre- 
sidio. Mollie and the babies were stowed in the little wagon 
between boxes and bales. Marion, Gilbert, Jr., and Charlie 
headed the procession, for cars there were none, and the old 
horse ambled along at his own sweet will with an occasional 
reminder from Charlie. It was a long and weary walk, but at 
its end they climbed the broad wooden steps and so to the broad 
walk fronting the officers' quarters, with great relief, for here 
was at least a temporary shelter. Gilbert stood at the door 
of a small wooden structure dignified by the name of cottage, and 
joyfully hailed them. In this place sixteen refugees found their 
home, and thankfully settled down — water was scarce, no fires 
were permitted, but provisions were supplied by the commissary. 
Such was the condition of affairs the fourth day after the earth- 
quake. Soon, however, things began to mend ; they had water 
again, could build a fire and cook their simple meals, and then 
their buoyant nature asserted itself and everybody was or tried 
to be, gay. The children had one glorious picnic — fires, loss 
of friends and homes and money meant nothing to them. They 
sang and skipped and ran races on that famous broad walk all 
day long, and when night came cuddled down on the floor in 
instant slumber. Once an Italian drifted in with a hand-organ, 
and everybody flocked around to listen to that erstwhile despised 
music. As he stood on the parade ground and played, sur- 



LATEE PKOSE WORKS 423 

rounded by children and grown-ups as well, the familiar strains 
of the Blue Danube waltz struck little Gilbert's ear. It recalled 
his own phonograph, and his and Billie' s daily recreation of 
dancing around the dining-room table at home to that music. 
He began to circle around and then, forgetful of his surround- 
ings, to dance — lightly as a leaf blown by a zephyr his little 
feet, seeming not to touch the sward, flew to the merry tune, 
gracefully waving his little arms above his head, keeping per- 
fect time on and on, around and around he danced — now here, 
now there, a lovely vision of childish grace and joy — and 
following him conscientiously, doing his level best, trudged 
Billie, his chubby arms folded over his plump little " tummy " 
his serious face earnestly frowning, regardless of time or tune, 
around and around, following his brother's flying feet, went 
little Billie. The grown-ups joined in uproarious laughter, 
but on and on to the end of the tune the two children danced. 
" Mother-er," complained Gilbert, '" Billie don't dance; he just 
walks just like a horse. What does Billie know of the Blue 
Danube time " 

After that every afternoon the hand organ man ground out the 
Blue Danube waltz and the children danced. Gilbert in the lead 
and annoyed almost beyond endurance because (to his trained 
ear) the dancers did not keep time. 

" Mother," he complained, " they haven't any music in their 
souls. Can't they see the steps in the music ? " 

" They never had a phonograph, many of them, Gilbert, or 
your advantages. You must remember that and be patient," 
counseled his mother. 

To Marion this child-life was something new and strange and 
she revelled in it. Sitting on the wide steps of the board walk, 
surrounded by children, she would tell them stories of the birds 
and beasts of the valley, of the Indian life in the camps, and 
she would sing in her sweet and lovely voice, modulated to its 
softest tones, the hymns and songs which she had sung in the 
Valley. With little Billie in her lap and Gilbert, Jr., leaning 
over her shoulders, Gilbert Lee saw her one afternoon when he 
came in, weary and cold and hungry, from the fire zone, and he 
thought that he had never seen a lovelier sight. He reported 
that at last the fire was under control and that all men were busy 



424 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

removing wreckage, digging for lost and missing friends, striv- 
ing to uncover the bank vaults which were believed to be intact 
(and afterwards proved so), and that once again the citizens of 
that desolated city had risen in their might to rebuild it. 

April ripened into May, violets and columbines began to 
bloom, liverwort and spring beauties carpeted the woodlands; 
cedars and pines pushed out tender green plumes; azaleas and 
burning bush burst into glorious flowers; geraniums, hedges 
showed a thousand scarlet buds, and the sweet, warm, life-giving 
sunshine of California spring beamed upon the land. In every 
fence corner the gold of the California poppy glowed, and in 
every tree the mockers and robins and blue birds made merry. 
In the middle of the month the Archambeau family rented a 
small apartment at an exorbitant rental in the northern part 
of the city, and it was with genuine regret that they left the 
Presidio to return to the sadness and desolation of the city. 
Marion, at Mollie' s earnest invitation, went with the family 
to their new home, but when they were settled, their few rescued 
belongings disposed to best advantage in the cottage and their 
scant wearing apparel re-made as best they could, she began to 
get restless and to long for her own home. Mollie had her hus- 
band and children, Gilbert his art, and Charlie was seldom at 
home. He had taken a room nearer town and was busy morn- 
ing, noon and night drawing plans, overseeing new buildings, 
springing like mushrooms from the ashes of the old, and Marion 
felt alone. One morning standing at her bedroom window, 
heartsick for the only home and friends she had ever known — 
facing towards her beloved valley and longing with her whole 
heart for its shelter again — suddenly — she knew not how, 
or from whence, came the sound but it was distinct and clear, 
" Marion, come ! come ! " and again, " Marion, come quick ! 
come ! " She knew it for the voice of her hermit friend. How 
she knew she could not have told, for she had never heard his 
voice except in the few Indian words he sometimes used, but 
when that call came appealing, insisting, commanding, she cried 
out in answer, " I will come ! I am coming ! Wait for me ! " 
and decided that she must at once obey that earnest call. To 
Mollie's dissuasion she answered nothing but quietly packed her 
little suit-case, kissed them all gratefully, thanked Mollie, left 



LATER PROSE WORKS 425 

love for the boys and was off on the next train in answer to that 
cry which she alone had heard. 

Chapter XIV 



Marion hoped to meet Tom at Raymond with the stage, and 
so it turned out. Bluff and hearty, cheery and affectionate, as 
of old, Tom joyfully greeted her and, seated beside him on 
the box, Marion, for the first time since leaving her beloved 
valley, felt at home. 

" How are they all, Tom ? How's Dandy ? " 

" He's fine, skittish as a young colt, and, say, they're cleanin' 
up the house ready for business in great shape — " 

" And Mandy, Tom ? " 

Tom chewed a straw reflectively. " Mandy ? Oh, she's 
well — Mandy. Well, you see, Sweetheart, Mandy is still 
standoffish a little, but I'll rope her in yet. I'm a Jim Dandy 
gentlin' hawses and I reckon I can gentle a woman critter, give 
me time." 

Marion laughed. " You've been at it some years, Tom." 

" Yes, I know, but you ain't never heard me say I've give 
up, have you, Sweetheart ? Eo, and you never will. Mandy 
now ain't so young by some years as she was, and she don't get 
no handsomer. I never could rightly make out why I want to 
marry her, but the fact is — I do. P'raps it's because she is so 
darned standoffish — I do'no' I'm sure, but I'll gentle her yet, 
you'll see. What's bringing you back so soon, Sweetheart — 
afraid of the 'quake ? " 

" I think I was a little, and I got homesick, Tom. I want 
to see the old home, and Mandy and my hermit. Have you 
seen him lately ? " 

" No — don't know's I have. A little while back I saw 
that squaw Ahweiha sittin' out on the road with her head in 
her blanket and she said she guessed that Calah was agoin' to 
the Happy Hunting Ground before many moons — that the 
Great Spirit was callin' him, which lingo, I take it, may mean 
that Calah, or whatever his name may be, is sick and she thinks 
he's goin' to die maybe — though for that matter he's been dead 



426 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

such a lot o' times that there'd ought to be a bury'n. He's 
allVs been a harmless old chap and done nobody any harm, 
nor no good either, so far's I know, but I guess he's a goin' to 
die this time." 

" I knew it, Tom," said Marion softly. " I was sure he was 
going to die." 

" You knew it, Sweetheart ; how could you ? Who told 
you?" 

" A little bird, Tom, and I came straight home. I'm so glad 
I'm in time." 

Not comprehending her meaning Tom delicately changed the 
subject. "Bill and Mandy's been doin' very well with the 
house, and Dandy's fit as a fiddle, I saw to him." 

" Thank you, Tom. I'll go home and stay overnight and in 
the morning will go and see Calah — " 

" That'll be best. I didn't gather from the squaw that there 
was much danger of his goin' right off and maybe her judg- 
ment's not correct." 

And now they were at Wanona — and now again on the 
road, climbing, climbing, up and up, higher and still higher, 
around the glories of mountain and waterfall and clouds — 
where the air seemed to effervesce and sparkle like cham- 
pagne — where the flowers bloomed in sheets of fragrance and 
every foot of the way was one grand triumphal march into the 
mysteries and wonders of a land newly discovered. 

The few tourists who were of the party were full of enthusi- 
asm and delight, and Tom pointed out with his whip the objects 
of interest as they journeyed. These trips were never tedious 
to Tom. " You see," he would explain, " it's all'a's new, I 
guess it's that that makes me like it so. One day the sun shines 
and the flowers come out, and the next day maybe it's misty and 
a veil seems over it all. Old El Capitan there looks like a 
shadow mountain, and when it rains, and all the trees are drip- 
pin' and green, its more beautiful, I think, than at any other 
time." 

Late in the afternoon Marion sprang lightly from her seat 
by Tom, ran first to the little corral where she saw Dandy, fat 
and well favored, cropping the early herbage; called him by 
name and was answered by a delighted whinney. She put her 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 427 

arms about his neck and he nozzled her face with joy, and this 
homely greeting made Marion's heart glad. She felt stronger 
and happier and more capable of facing life than she had since 
her foster parents' death, and the awfulness of her city experi- 
ences slipped into the background of her memory. She began 
to sing, and this time it was a hymn of joy. At the door stood 
Mandy — tall, angular, uncompromising — waiting until Ma- 
rion should recognise the fact of her existence ; and Tom, com- 
ing from the barn where he had been seeing to his horses, saw 
her standing there — waiting, waiting, always waiting. Some- 
thing of pity stirred the good fellow's heart. 

" Hello, Mandy ! Glad to see you. Shake hands. Marion, 
let that horse alone and come and speak to Mandy." 

Marion turned, saw Mandy and ran to her ; hugged and kissed 
her unresponsive cheek and cried, " Mandy, I've come home, 
I'm so glad." 

" There, there, child, don't muss my collar ! Be off with you 
and get the dust off your clothes. You're quite a sight." 

" Mandy," said Tom, " I'm waitin'." 

Mandy's face actually took on a brick red flush. 

" You'll get tired of waitin' I reckin," she said. " I cal'late 
in a few more years you'll get a little mite of sense." 

" Got it now," said Tom, giving the angular shoulders a 
good natured shake. " Know a good thing when I see it and 
mean to have it soon or late." 

" It'll be late enough," snapped Mandy. " I'm goin' in " — 
and she did. 

In the morning Marion, mounted on her beloved Dandy, 
rode to the little cabin where Calah had for so many years made 
his home. Ahweiha was sitting on the step outside the door — 
the portcullis was down, and there was an air of sadness about 
the place. The squaw sat with her head buried in her blanket, 
her whole attitude one of grief and despair. Putting her hand 
gently on her shoulder and speaking in her own language, 
Marion said, " Ahweiha, I am here. He called and I came." 

The squaw gently rose from her seat. " I know," she re- 
plied, " he called all the time. He called ' Marion, Marion, 
come,' and you here, he no stay. The Great Spirit calls also, 
and the white God goes to his own." 



428 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Together they entered the cabin. A dull fire was burning 
on the hearth. The sick man lying on his couch of skins was 
muttering incoherently: his flaming black eyes seemed super- 
naturally bright in contrast with the pallor of his face. He 
looked long and searchingly at the girl, and for the first time in 
many years spoke in his own language. " Marion/' he said, 
" you are come. I knew you would come when I called 
you." 

"Ah, ah, he spek Inglis!" ejaculated Ahweiha. " He not 
know you — he think you his squaw. Let him alone." 

Marion gently placed her hand on his forehead. " I heard 
you call when I was a long way off and I came at once, I knew 
your voice " — and now he was a long way off also, back in the 
days of his early love and it was, " Marion, do you remember," 
— little incidents of their early acquaintance hesitatingly and 
lingeringly recalled. " Do you remember the first time I held 
your hand? It was a London fog. So thick that we nearly 
lost our way. The lamps shone with a dull, greenish light 
and you put your hand in mine as we walked — such a soft, 
tender little hand it was, Marion, and it fluttered like a little 
bird. I held it, Marion, close, and wished that walk would 
never end — and then — Marion dearest — come closer — do 
you mind the night it rained so hard and I took you home 
under my umbrella and at the door — a light was in the win- 
dow and it lighted your face as you lifted it to thank me — do 
you mind — my dearest — under that umbrella I stooped and 
kissed your lips — and you were not angry, Marion. I knew 
it was a great sin and all night I wrestled in prayer, but in all 
those awful hours I felt the soft warm touch of your lips, and 
I could not be sorry." 

And now he was again in the stone house at home with 
" Mither " and his tongue took on the Scotch burr so long for- 
gotten; he was walking to the kirk with Mither, his hand in 
hers, or gathering the golden gorse for her, or fishing in the 
burn, and through all these wanderings, " His ways were ways 
of pleasantness and all His paths were peace." It was as 
though through the "deep waters" he had come into the 
" green meadow." Marion and Ahweiha listened and mar- 



LATEK PEOSE WOKKS 429 

veiled to see his face grow brighter and younger, the old lines 
of care and despondency disappear, and he sometimes laughed 
in a boyish way as he recalled some boyish prank. Then it was 
Mither who filled his thoughts, Mither who tucked him in at 
night and said, " God keep you, laddie, 'til the morn." Mither 
who baked the oaten cakes which he so loved ; Mither who was 
always tender and true and loving. Of his father he never 
spoke. 

Ahweiha tidied up the room, and Marion bathed her hermit's 
face and brushed the snow-white hair falling in soft, silken 
waves to his shoulders until it shone and glistened like a silver 
fleece. She had brought necessary comforts from the Inn and 
together they robed him in a soft and pretty dressing gown un- 
til, lying at peace, his weary head resting on the snowy pillow, 
the Hermit of the Valley seemed a different man. " Sing, 
sing, my Marion," he murmured, and Marion sang, soft and low, 
the old, old lullaby, 

" Sleep, sleep, while billows creep, 
Over the slumbering sands." 

Slowly the ivory lids drooped over the black eyes, and, hold- 
ing Marion's hand close clasped, he slept. Afraid to move 
lest it disturb the sleeper, Marion sat beside the couch long 
hours, and when the door opened softly she did not turn until a 
hand was laid upon her shoulder and then she saw Gilbert 
Lee. Ever thoughtful, he had followed her on the next train 
and had come to share her vigil. As he stood looking at the 
sleeping man, memory awoke, somehow the face was strangely 
familiar to him ; surely he knew that high and narrow fore- 
head, that oval, delicate profile, those long and slender hands 
folded on his breast. When, where, had he seen this man be- 
fore ? As he gazed, the Hermit opened his eyes — those bril- 
liant flaming black eyes lighted his face like a beacon — and 
then he knew — he knew. He saw again the young father 
with the little child in his arms in the office of the Valley Inn ; 
again he saw that bright and sunny little girl-wife by his side, 
gaily laughing at some sally of the Judge, and even while those 
unseeing eyes seemed to pierce his soul he knew that here was 
the long lost man — the husband of Marion Campbell, lost so 



430 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

many years ago on the mountains — the father of Marion 
standing by his side. 

" Little girl/' he questioned softly, " why did you not wait 
for me? I would have brought you." 

" I could not wait, Gilbert. He called me and I came at 
once. He thinks that I am his wife, and he calls her Marion.'' 

Gilbert hesitated before he spoke again. In his own mind 
he was certain of the man's identity, but he must be sure. 
" Ask Ahweiha if Calah has any of the things he had when she 
first saw him % " he requested Marion, and in reply Ahweiha 
brought from some mysterious nook a suit of clothes, old and 
moth-eaten, but in the pockets Gilbert found return tickets 
from the Valley, a small roll of money, and a diary. He si- 
lently examined these proofs of Calah's identity with David 
Campbell and then he spoke to the sick man : " David Camp- 
bell, I'm sorry to see you so sick." 

" David ! David ! That's my name, and, Marion, come here, 
wee wifie — hold my hand," and so babbling contentedly, for- 
getting all the sorrows and the loneliness of the years between, 
David Campbell, holding the hand of his daughter and think- 
ing it the hand of his girl-wife, closed his flashing eyes upon 
all earthly scenes, and slept. Ahweiha, covering her head with 
her blanket, sang the death song of her people, and Gilbert and 
Marion, awed beyond expression by the sudden passing of the 
soul and the Indian's lament, stood in silence by the couch. 
In the morning, learning by that strange telepathy of their 
" White God's " passing away, his Indian friends, who had so 
reverenced and cared for him, held a solemn council and their 
chiefs, appareled with all the magnificence of an ambassador, 
and his aids, came to Marion in the little cabin and requested 
that they might be permitted to bury Calah with the honors 
of their tribe. Gilbert Lee was there. " Speak to them, 
Ahweiha, and tell them that it cannot be." But Marion inter- 
posed, " I can speak their language and they will understand 
better." So she stood upon the cabin step a little above them 
and called them about her. She told them of the dreadful 
death of her young mother, of her father's flight into the moun- 
tains and gratefully thanked them for their care of him. " The 
Great Spirit, she said, " had kindly taken from him all memory 



LATER PROSE WORKS 431 

of that awful night and sent him to you, great chieftains of a 
great nation, and you understood. Your corn flourished — 
your wigwams were full of meat. The streams were full of 
fish and the grasshoppers came by the thousands into your 
traps — and you knew that the White God's blessing brought 
prosperity, and now his spirit thanks you. He was my father, 
though I did not know it. I have grown up among you and 
loved you, and I ask you to let him lie in the little graveyard 
beside his young wife whom he so loved and who was so cruelly 
killed, and I want you, chieftains and underchief s and all your 
tribes, to come and stand beside his grave and bid him God- 
speed on the strange journey where no man may follow until 
the Great Spirit calls him. I hold you in my heart of hearts 
for your goodness to him and your love for me, your White 
Lily." She ceased and they crowded about her. " We will 
do all that Calah and the white lily wishes, O daughter of the 
White God — and we will sorrow all night by our own camp 
fire for the going away of the White-God. His o'chum is 
empty — our hearts are sad." 

That night, in the little valley of the Yosemite where he had 
first come to them, they all gathered, lighted their camp fires 
and, painted with all the insignia of mourning, told of the vir- 
tues of the dead, of the great and wonderful prosperity his 
coming among them had brought, and sang their mournful 
death songs. As the fires died down to a dull red glow, when 
strange shadows lurked among the trees and the moon fitfully 
shone through the branches, their chosen men danced the dance 
of death. In the outskirts their women moaned the death 
songs — pointing to the West and carrying the refrain " Hem 
— la'-ha ! " until they were exhausted, when others would take 
their places — and though they could not burn the body to 
keep away all evil spirits as they wished to do, they could and 
did burn all the beautiful rugs and baskets and deer-skin suits 
which they had lavished upon him, to speed his happy soul 
to the El-o'win of the distant West — the land of the Happy 
Hunting Grounds. 

So David Campbell was buried beside his girl wife in the 
little grave yard — > the burial service read by a touring clergy- 
man. The chiefs and underchief s magnificently dressed, with 



432 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

painted faces, stood in a circle about the grave and listened 
respectfully — and when the last clod fell they buried their 
faces in their blankets and turned away. In the background 
stood the squaws and the older children of the tribe, Ahweiha 
among them, their bright blankets making a brilliant band of 
color against the sombre pines. Gilbert took Marion's hand. 
Mandy and Tom walked beside her as they left the little en- 
closure, and silently they went to the Inn. Again, Gilbert felt 
that it was no time to speak of his own hopes and was silent. 
Charlie had come down for the funeral and his was the hand 
that covered the new-made grave with spruce boughs and flowers 
— his the care that removed all vestige of the funeral from the 
room before Marion came back to her desolate home. 



Chapter XV 

ANGUS CAMPBELL 

Not twenty miles from Edinburgh the little village of Althol 
lies half buried in verdure. Ragged hills surround it, and a 
noisy little burn with waters clear as a diamond, rushes and 
gurgles under its bridges through its street. Set back from 
the little unpaved street stood a stone cottage, overgrown with 
roses. It seemed a bird's house with its tiny windows, and the 
walk to the gate was scrubbed white as marble. Here lived 
Angus Campbell and his wife Jeane — here was born David, 
their only child, and yonder at the top of the street, its steeple 
ever pointing upward, was the chapel where David was bap- 
tised, where he had made his solemn vows, and from which he 
was expelled when he broke them — his own father with sterl- 
ing honesty and Spartan heroism preferring the charges which 
disgraced his son in the little chapel. In the cozy kitchen of 
this cottage one night in the early fall sat Angus Campbell and 
his wife. A great fire glowed and flamed in the open fireplace. 
The boiling kettle hanging from the crane in the chimney sang 
its cheerful song, and Jeane had cleared away the tea things and 
taken her knitting. She was a placid, sweet-faced woman, 
and her gray hair glinted like silver in the light of the lamp 
as she knitted her man's long blue stocking. Angus had been 



LATEK PROSE WORKS 433 

reading the Book, and his hand still rested caressingly on its 
leathern cover as it lay on the stand beside him. He was an 
elder in his kirk and had just returned from a conference held 
in a neighboring town. He was a large-framed man with a 
heavy thatch of iron gray hair brushed back from a broad and 
massive brow; bushy gray eyebrows almost met over the steel 
blue eyes ; and the thin lips were set closely together, the square 
jaw and a certain inflexibility of face told the story of his 
firmness, or obstinacy, as friend or foe decided. He had not 
broken silence since the reading of the word, and the faint 
click-click of the needles as his wife diligently knitted was the 
only sound in the room. To Jeane, used to her man's ways for 
so many years, the hour was fraught with possibilities — and 
she waited — as she had learned to wait — for him to speak. 
Finally, when the silence had become almost unbearable, he be- 
gan to speak — slowly and in broad Scotch which I cannot re- 
produce, nor can I the deep and powerful voice of the man ac- 
customed to deference and attention, whose every word was 
carefully weighed before it was uttered even at his own fireside 
and with his wife for his only listener. 

" We had a fine meeting," he began, " and the Lord was 
with us. Andy McCallum, and John Stuart and Hector Mc- 
Donald were all there, and Angus McLain led the meeting. 

Woman ! It was grand ! He read " the man's voice sank 

and he spoke with a sort of reluctance — " the story of the 
Prodigal Son. My word ! but he read well, and it was as if 
I could see that poor and wicked young man, hungry and 
ragged and dirty, with his staff in his hand staggering along 
the highway — going home — in rags — in disgrace — in 
poverty — he who had gone out so gaily with his best clothes 
on and his money in his hand. Such a bright, handsome and 
bonny lad unheeding his father's counsel and his father's sor- 
row — coming home — and then it was as if his father had 
been waiting and watching for him all the years that he was 
gone — and he saw him afar off — and he ran — yes, ran, 
that old man who had been so be-fooled and neglected — whose 
substance the lad had wasted in riotous living — ran to him. 
He didn't see the dirt or the rags — only the hunger in the 
lad's eyes and he never let him get farther than, ' Father, I have 



434 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

sinned ' before he had him in his arms, crying and kissing him 
and so bringing him back into his own home again — in honor 
and gladness. ' Bring the best robe, put a ring on his hand. 
Kill the fatted calf.' Oh, it was wonderful! wonderful. 
There wasn't a dry eye in the room — and then — " the man's 
voice sank lower — closer grew his clasp on the beloved Book — 
he said, " Mark this Jeane — that there were prodigal fathers 
as well as prodigal sons — fathers who made themselves judges 
instead of letting the Almighty do the judging — and who 
were all for punishing God's sons in their human way think- 
ing they did God service. He said such a father would never 
have run out to meet that son ; he would have said, ' You've 
made your bed — lie in it,' and shut the door of his heart and 
his house against him, and when the poor lad came begging 
bread he'd give him a stone, and, Jeane — I thought of the lad, 
and I knew that I was one of the prodigal fathers he was tell- 
ing about, and I wanted to run — run hard and fast until I 
found my son and say to him, i I have sinned.' " Angus 
straightened in his chair, his voice lifted and his eyes glowed 
under their bushy brows. " I thought, as I sat there, who 
was I to punish the lad because he broke his vow to his God, 
as if God couldn't take care of his own honor, and I saw that 
poor bit lassie alone in the wicked London streets and I knew, 
Jeane — yes, I did — that if it had been you my lass, I'd 
thought shame of myself if I didn't do what the lad did. Eh ! 
but I was hard. I took his name from the Book and shut the 
door in his face, and till to-night have never let his name be 
named in his own home." Jeane was sitting silent, still knit- 
ting, unseeing the long blue stocking, tears running unchecked 
down her face. " I put myself — " Angus went on — " in the 
place of the Almighty and condemned the poor lad, and now it's 
over late to mend it. A little seed of sin grows full soon to a 
great tree of crime." 

And now Jeane was at his feet, clasping his knees and crying 
between her tears, " Angus, Angus, dear lad, I know you 
thought you were right, but, oh, my man — my man, I have 
hungered and thirsted and prayed for my lost lad all these 
weary years. Where is he and how is he faring? Whiles his 
father and his mother live in plenty, goes he wanting ? " 



LATER PEOSE WORKS 435 

" I think," resumed Angus, " that it was his words and the 

story and all to-day and Get up, my lass, there's more to 

come. As I went with John into Hector McDonald's store to 
get your bit things I saw a London paper lying on the bench 
and my name in print and it said — wait a second — here it is." 
From his pocket he took a crumpled slip of paper and read, 
" If Angus Campbell or any relative of David Campbell who 
left the Theological School in Edinburgh in the year 18 — will 
communicate with Gilbert Lee, San Francisco, California, he 
or they can learn news of David Campbell." " This," said the 
old man, " is the Lord's doings and it is marvelous in our 
sight : Let us pray." He rose to his feet, closed his eyes and 
lifted his hands. " Heavenly Father — forgive my sins — 
grant me pardon, and wisdom to undo what in my blindness 
and hardness of heart I have done. Let Thy hand lie lightly 
on the mither of the lad who aye sorrowed and could not be 
comforted, and, O God of our fathers, let Thy hand lead me 
and Thy counsel guide until I find the lad again and bring him 
in honor unto his own home — and am no more a prodigal 
father, Amen." 

Jeane stood before her husband with a certain dignity. She 
who had been so sweetly submissive all the cruel years now past 
seemed to have grown in stature. At her feet lay her knitting 
unheeded. " This night has the dear Lord come to us," she 
cried. " Open wide the door and let Him come in." As she 
spoke she threw the door wide open, and together in awesome 
silence they stood waiting — waiting for the coming of the 
Spirit of the Lord. A flood of moonlight beamed upon them — 
the still small voices of the night alone broke that silence, and 
as they stood " that peace which passeth all understanding " 
filled their hearts. 



Chapter XVI 

ANGUS IN SAN FRANCISCO 

Two weeks later a tall and angular Scotchman and a timid 
little dove-colored wife came into Gilbert Lee's studio — a 
new shack now built further up town on Nob's hill where the 



436 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

'quake and the fire had spared a few houses. They had come 
from Scotland, seeking their lost son. The long and, to them, 
fearful journey had been borne patiently and even cheerfully 
as a necessary evil, and now that they had reached their desti- 
nation in safety their only thought was how to find their boy. 
They saw with awe the traces of destruction by fire and 'quake 
in the city, and with astonishment the cheerful and energetic 
work of its rebuilding going on about them. In every quarter 
hundreds of men were tearing away the falling walls, carting 
off the debris, lifting the steel and iron structures which had 
crumpled like tissue paper under the flames, and now lay 
twisted and doubled like great black snakes in every cellar — 
digging carefully lest some human body might still rest under 
the fallen walls. Everywhere the sound of shovel and ham- 
mer and axe sounded, loaded wagons crowded the streets — 
often the explosion of dynamite told of some dangerous build- 
ing being. razed; sometimes they saw disinterred bodies, lying 
on the sidewalk for identification and both looked eagerly to 
see if by any chance one of them might be the son they were 
seeking. As in their native village side by side, walked the 
pair; careless alike of passersby and criticism, obsessed by 
the one great quest — undisturbed by the novelty of their sur- 
roundings or its difficulties : and now they stood in the presence 
of the man who could tell them of David. In his old velveteen 
coat, pallette in hand, he stood before his easel, a fine and noble 
specimen of the American man. It was never Angus Camp- 
bell's way to beat about the bush. 

Declining the proffered chair, he advanced and holding out 
the torn and crumpled advertisement which had guided them 
to this place, said, " I am Angus Campbell of Althol, an elder 
in the old kirk, and this is my wife Jeane. In a miraculous 
way I saw this notice in an old paper and we have come at 
once to take our David home. It's over late I know and I 
alone am to blame, but what I can do to right the wrong that 
will I do." 

And the mother clasping and unclasping her thin hands in 
supplication, pled with eyes and tremulous lips and tender 
voice, " Oh, sir, tell me where to find our laddie, lang — lang 
years ago we lost him, and my heart has sair grieved for him 



LATER PEOSE WORKS 437 

ever since. I do so long to see his bonny face. Tell us where 
we may find our lad, and God will bless you — surely he will." 

Sorrowfully, Gilbert took her two hands in his and placed 
her in a chair. " Sit down, dear lady, and you, sir, sit down. 
It's a long story and I'll tell you the whole of it. Your dear 
lad, a lad no longer, but a world-weary man with hair as white 
as snow, has passed away, and you must not grieve that you 
cannot take him to your home for he has gone to a better one. 
He had friends good and true beside him and, let this comfort 
your heart — father and mother " — how gentle was Gilbert's 
calling of their names — " in his last hours he was again in his 
old home and with his mither — your name was ever on his 
lips — and he has left to you a little lassie — the dearest, 
sweetest and prettiest girl in the world, and in this child you 
will find comfort." 

Angus rose abruptly and went to the window, turning his 
back on the room and its occupants. He looked, unseeing, 
down upon the ruins of the great city and at its upbuilding — 
at first unseeing and then with understanding. He — like 
that mighty city with all hopes wrecked and all prospects laid 
low — was a ruin ; but it was being rebuilt — in sorrow and 
toil but still rising above its ruins. So might he somehow, in 
some measure, redeem the past, but the mother, unrestrainedly 
she wept : " Too late — too late, my lad — my little lad, al- 
ways I have prayed that you might be brought back to us and 
never — never have I thought you dead. Did you say, sir, 
that he left a lassie ? Then has the Lord been kind. He has 
not left our house unto us desolate. Angus — dear man," 
she went to him and placed her hand upon his arm beseech- 
ingly — " Angus — dear man, the Master has taken our work 
out of our hands. He has punished us sorely and sorely are 
we stricken, but, listen, Angus. He has left us a great gift, 
our Davie's little maid. Let us go to our son's grave and see 
his daughter. She shall be ours. The Lord has put away 
thy sin. Come, come, dear man — grieve no more. Let us 
thank God and go on." Angus turned, and placed his hand over 
hers. " Let it be so," he said, " let it be so." 

Gilbert had stood silently near, then he began touching and 



438 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

retouching the picture upon which he was working. Not then 
could he say to them that he wanted to rob them of the child, 
not yet recovered, nor dim their hopes of redeeming the past. 

The future with its possibilities and hopes must be left to 
unfold in its own time. When they were more self-controlled 
he said, " The hotels are all in ruins. I don't know in all San 
Francisco where I can get you a place to sleep, but my sister 
Mollie has a little flat, and I am sure she will gladly make room 
for you. Come with me and as soon as possible I will go with 
you to your grand-daughter, and you shall see your son's grave 
and hear from her the story of his life." 

So it came about that the Campbells became guests of the 
Archambeaus, Mr. Archambeau, with photos completed and 
book already in press in another city, at once fore-gathered with 
Angus Campbell. He had spent some years in Scotland in his 
bachelor days and loved the land. This was a tie between 
them, and over photographs and book they passed the time. 
Jeane was at once taken to Mollie's loving heart. She never 
wearied listening to their praises of Marion, the little unknown 
" bairnie," upon whom their hopes were now centered. And 
Mollie's little children — how dear were they to the starved 
heart of Jeane, who for twenty years had lived her lonely life 
and in silence and secrecy mourned her son. 

One bright September morning, accompanied by Gilbert, 
they started for the Valley Inn. Already, in a guarded letter, 
Gilbert had notified Marion of the coming guests, and at Ray- 
mond was Tom and his " bronchs." Tom met them joyfully 
and proclaimed to the dignified and reticent Scotchman his 
opinion of his grand-daughter. " I tell you here and now she's 
a peach." 

" A what ? " queried that gentleman. 

" A peach — a pippin, that's what ? " 

" Do you mean by comparing her to fruit that she is good 
and bonny \ " 

" Well, I don't rightly know what you mean by bonny, but 
you've got the idea all right. She's a whole team and the dog 
under the wagon. That's a fact." 

" I fail," replied the grandfather coldly, " to understand how 
my grand-daughter can resemble a team and I would be even 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 439 

more sorry that she can be likened to the dog under the wagon. 
So long as she is a good bairn we will be satisfied." 

Tom whistled through his fingers shrilly and mounted his 
box, and soon, the stage comfortably filled, they were toiling up 
the ever-beautiful, ascending road. Gilbert sat by Jeane 
and pointed out noted or fine bits of scenery as they journeyed. 
" What do you think of the Valley ? " he finally inquired, 
" How does it compare with Scotland ? " 

" Ye canna compare them, Mr. Lee. Scotland is as if the 
Maker loved the work when He made it. He set the purple 
moors and the golden gorse, and the little burns running and 
gurgling everywhere and the blue lakes, and He girdled the 
land with rugged hills and He planted flowers everywhere for 
the very love of it — but here. Oh, I think he made this land 
from the majesty of His imagination. I don't know if you'll 
understand me, sir, but I mean that He made Scotland and He 
created the Yosemite." To Angus Campbell the majesty of 
the mountains appealed greatly, and when he first caught sight 
of El Capitan, crowned with floating, cumulous clouds, he rose 
in his seat, removed his hat and repeated, " Lord Thou hast 
been our dwelling-place in all generations; before the moun- 
tains were brought forth or ever Thou hadst formed the earth 
and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting Thou art 
God." 

Chapter XVII 

Marion's life 

In the meantime Marion's life flowed gently on like some 
placid stream, which, broken and fretted by rocks and falls and 
quicksands, had at length passed onward and now rested in a 
quiet pool. Her childhood had vanished in the rude awaken- 
ing of her womanhood. Events had followed each other in 
such rapid succession that she now stood bewildered and dazed 
upon the threshold of her new life; her foster-mother's death 
followed soon by that of her foster-father, her trip to the great 
unknown world beyond the horizon of the valley, so eagerly 
longed for, so disastrously attained ; that awful night of glamor 
and of horror — the earthquake and the fires ; her wonderful 



440 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

deliverance, as she believed, in answer to her frenzied prayer, 
and Gilbert's opportune appearance; that beautiful life in the 
Park with Mollie and the children, and Charlie. Ah, yes, 
Charlie had made her laugh — had lifted her out of the depths 
of woe by his gaiety — and Gilbert — he was her savior — a 
friend always at hand, a staff upon which to lean — and now 
she was again alone. Only Mandy and Tom and Dandy re- 
mained of her old life. The Kennedys were running the 
house, and it seemed no longer home. From early morn, often 
until the evening shadows began to gather, she and her beloved 
Dandy wandered. His years sat lightly upon his head and he 
was still as skittish as in his colt-hood. Up, up, among the cool 
and fragrant mountain-passes they went — pausing now to 
listen to some bird, to watch the little ouzels darting in and out 
of the spray at some fall into the dainty nests of mosses sprinkled 
by the spray, to gather some flower, to watch the noble flight of 
an eagle to his lofty home thousands of feet above her, and to 
wander many hours in that marvelous grove where the majestic 
sequoias lift their flowered heads to the sky; where the car- 
dinals flashed like scarlet rockets through the sombre green of 
the foliage, and the brown thrushes soared and sang. The 
flickering sunlight falling through the branches lighted the 
aisles and paved them in golden mosaic; the pines sang to her 
their ceaseless and lovely song, soothing her ; and the spirit of 
the silent woodland brooded over her the balsamic odors so 
healing to broken hearts and bodies; the soft carpet of pine 
needles underfoot unknown to herself were gradually restoring 
her to mental and physical health. She began, as days went by, 
to regain her poise. Her father's death, which had so saddened 
and shocked her, became now a dear possession. She was no 
longer a waif. She had found her family; she knew and un- 
derstood how greatly it comforted her to know that, somewhere 
in the wide world, she had living relations. She was no 
longer alone. She would ask Gilbert — ah, yes, always Gil- 
bert — to look them up for her. By her father's and mother's 
grave she never lingered. They were tenderly cared for and 
gay with flowers, but to Marion, those of her adoption seemed 
nearest to her in the home. 

One sweet and placid day, such a day as sometimes comes in 



LATEE PKOSE WORKS 441 

the early fall, as though Nature pauses to gather strength for 
her coming storms, Marion and Dandy as usual wandered 
among the monarchs of the forest. She had dismounted and 
with his bridle over his head Dandy stood by the picturesque 
little cabin erected as a shelter some distance from the road. 
A stage coach of late tourists appeared slowly winding up the 
tortuous road, and Tom was on the box; yes, and Gilbert sat 
beside him. Why ? Marion's heart beat rapidly as she asked 
herself the question. What new calamity had Gilbert come 
to ward off? She turned into a by-path, avoiding the high- 
way. The coach stopped and passengers alighted. Gilbert 
sprang from the box and Tom — her Tom, smiled at her and 
saluted gaily. " !No trouble, Sweetheart," he called cheerily. 

Straight towards the waiting girl they came. Gilbert, 
steadying the steps of a sweet-faced, gray-haired woman, and be- 
side them walked a tall and stalwart man with flowing white 
beard and flashing steel-blue eyes, so like and so unlike the 
dear hermit of her love, the father, never known. And now 
Gilbert was taking her hand and he was saying, " Sweetheart, 
I bring you great joy. Your grandmother and your grand- 
father have come all the way from Scotland to find you — " 
He got no further for the dear little lady ran to the slender 
figure standing so straight and so quietly in the checkered sun- 
light of the trees, crying," My bairnie, my Davie's bairnie, we 
have come from over the seas to find him — his father and me 
— and we have found only his grave and — his little lass. 
Lassie ! Lassie ! " Her soft arms were about Marion's neck, 
her tears were on her cheek, and looking into that true and 
motherly face, asking no questions, Marion folded her strong 
young arms about the little woman and kissed her. 

" Marion," interrupted Gilbert, " here is your grandfather," 
and Angus Campbell held out his hands. 

" My lass," he began, and his voice quivered and broke," I 
am not worthy. I shut the door of my heart against the lad I 
loved and thought I did God service. I have sore repented and 
sought him and God has smitten me. He has left only you to 
comfort us. Will you come home with us to bonny Scotland ? " 

Angus Campbell and wife spent a week at the Inn. Mandy 
was not well pleased. She confided to Marion that the little 



442 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Scotch woman was well enough, but as for that hard-faced, 
bushy-eyed old man with the iron fists, she couldn't abide 
him, and if Marion went home with them she'd find that he'd 
run things to suit himself. " Kepent indeed," she snorted. 
" When his son was in his grave. Nice time to repent. Pity 
'twas he hadn't died long ago and give his wife a chance to say 
her soul was her own — and mind you, Marion — Don't you 
be the least mite afraid of him. Stand up to him — and if 
he don't treat you well — you come home — " 

Marion arranged with the Kennedys to run the house; bade 
a tender farewell to her Indian friends and Dandy, went sol- 
emnly about all the old well-loved haunts of her childhood, stood 
by the graves which were now carpeted by falling leaves and 
she was ready to go. They lingered in San Francisco long 
enough to purchase necessary clothing and spend a few days 
with Mollie and the children. Charlie was much in evidence 
and fully believed in " making hay while the sun shone," but 
even he could see that not for him nor any man was the sun 
shining in Marion's heart. She was happiest when, with lit- 
tle Billie on her knee and Gilbert, Jr., sitting on the arm of her 
chair, she told them wonderful fairy tales or sang, in a low, 
sweet monotone, little songs for them. Mollie, bustling about, 
often paused to watch the girl and wonder. Charlie felt re- 
pulsed, he knew not why. His ever ready tongue had lost its 
glibness, and Gilbert resolutely absented himself from them. 
" Marion," he thought, " should not be troubled. She had suf- 
fered enough and he could wait — " 

When the day came that they were to start for home he came 
and brought to Marion his parting gift — a picture of her 
home, the green and flowery valley, the winding river, the 
white house with its green shutters and deep porches half 
hidden in vines, and in the background the little picket fence 
that enclosed the graves of her dead. Dandy stood in the fore- 
ground, bridle over head ; Mandy in the doorway, angular and 
upright, and Tom not far off. With a cry of joy Marion seized 
this picture, and it was to her during the long and weary months 
that followed the one link that drew her ever and steadily back 
to home and her sweet home life. Charlie loaded her with flow- 
ers and fruits, and just before starting solemnly presented her 



LATEK PKOSE WOEKS 443 

with a little cub bear. " The cutest thing," announced Charlie, 
" I knew you'd want it. He'll follow you about the house like 
a dog. I corralled a little Injin too, but Mr. Campbell said 
he was a heathen and not elect so I let him go — but the little 
cub —» 

" Ye'll no be thinkin' that we can take the savage beastie wi' 
us, can ye ? " questioned Jeane anxiously. " It's no to be 
thought of." 

" Oh, I don't know," drawled Charlie. " One thinks of so 
many things. ISTow Sweetheart there — " 

Sweetheart looked at him with dancing eyes. She sized up 
the situation at once, fed the little cub with lumps of sugar and 
waited. 

" I'll no have him," announced Jeane indignantly lapsing into 
broadest Scotch — " A beastie like yon running about the house, 
trackin' up my sanded flure, cluttering up things just awful, 
and, lassie, you'll no be wantin' him — say ye'll not. I'm loath 
to cross you but indeed it'll grow oh vera sune to be a fear- 
some beast." 

" "No, no, Grandmother, we'll not take him. Gilbert, Jr., 
will be glad to have him for a plaything. Won't you, Gilbert ? " 

" If Mother is willing," announced Gilbert, Jr., and Charlie 
in his melancholy drawl droned out, 

" 'Twas ever thus since Childhood's hour 
I've seen my fondest hopes decay — 
And when I buy a bear or flower 
Why I can't give the thing away — 

The day came when they sailed away from that wonderful 
harbor of the Golden West. Gilbert and Charlie and Mollie 
and the children stood on the dock and waved farewell. Ma- 
rion stood on the deck until the last faint outline of the fast 
vanishing shore was but a mist, then silently she went below. 
Of the days which followed from early dawn until the stars 
came out, she was on deck. This new and wonderful water- 
world was an unwearied delight to the girl — where the white 
gulls swooped in graceful curves or floated like snowy minia- 
ture sail-boats upon the bounding billows ; where great porpoises 
rolled their shining black sides into view as they played be- 



444 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

neath the waves, and now and then some whale spouted in the 
distance — and ever and ever the long and swelling billows as 
they rolled, the white and foaming road left by the steamer, 
the blue sky seeming to bend and enclose them — all was 
new and all delightful. Of the life on board she saw but little. 
Often her grandmother sat beside her, holding her hand, but 
they were as far apart as the poles. To the older lady the 
sea was simply a road, and a dangerous one often, to Scotland, 
to be patiently endured because it was the only way home: to 
the younger it was the marvelous work of an Almighty Creator, 
and when the storm came lashing in its fury the billows and 
tossing the boat like a toy balloon upon its waves, clothed in 
oil-skins, she was still on deck in some protected corner enjoying 
beyond all words that magnificent spectacle, a storm at sea. 
Sometimes Angus Campbell stood by her side, his rugged face 
braving the storm, undismayed, with that Scotch tenacity which 
had always actuated his ancestors in times of stress or peril. 
" It's a rough night for you, my lass — you'd best go below,'' 
once he urged her. Marion shook her head. " Well, well, as 
you will. Scotch bluid will tell and it never bred a coward 
yet. Stay an' you like. I'm greatly likin' you mysel, and I 
too am happy in dour weather." 

When Tom returned with the stage to the Valley Inn, after 
taking Marion and her people to the train, he saw to the proper 
feeding of his " bronchs," and then, as was his custom, strolled 
around to the kitchen door expecting to come across Mandy. 
She was not there, nor was she bustling about in her energetic 
way, hurrying the " dishing up " of the dinner. A sense of 
loss of something to which he had long been accustomed assailed 
Tom. " Where is Mandy ? " he asked San Lee. 

" She gone to the liber, I gless," he replied. Mandy gone 
to the river and at dinner time. What did that mean % Mandy, 
not much given to roaming nor to day-dreaming at any time, 
and never when it interfered with her work. Tom at once set 
off in the direction of the " liber." At a distance he saw Mandy. 
She was standing under a massive willow tree, straight and un- 
bending as its own trunk, looking into the water, her hands 
clasped tightly together. Something in the attitude, he could 



LATER PROSE WORKS 445 

not see her face, distinctly assured Tom that all was not going 
well with Mandy. He went to her and spoke her name. She 
started guiltily and muttered something about " going at once 
to dish up," but Tom, masterful now since he had seen her in 
distress, said, " Never mind, San Lee is doing all right, and I 
saw Budd in the kitchen. I want to talk to you, Mandy, and 
it's time you listened to me. Over the pitch there and under 
the prettiest pines you ever saw in your life I've been busy and 
I've built us a cabin. I've been years a doin' it, Mandy, and 
I ain't never said a word about it, but it's just the likeliest 
place; got a big porch with roses climbing over it, and you 
can look straight up into the mountains, and the kitchen — 
my word, Mandy, I jest laid myself out on that kitchen. It's 
big and light and got a pantry and ice-box and shelves. I made 
them myself — and a stove which I brought myself from Frisco 
and a rocking chair." 

" What under the sun, Tom Kennedy," snorted Mandy, " do 
you want of a rockin' chair in a kitchen? I'd never tolerate 
such shiftless ways." 

Tom's eyes twinkled. " That's as you like Mandy. You're 
to be the Queen of that kitchen, I reckon — " 

" I never said so, you're the beatingest man to twist a per- 
son's words." 

" I've painted her all white," resumed Tom, " with green 
shutters like you said your New Hampshire home was — and 
I've got a pretty little cow and some pigs and some hens, and 
all the time, Mandy, I've been thinkin' what you'd like, for, you 
see, I've thought some time maybe it'ud be home to you. 
Mandy, the time's come. You'd a good sight better be workin' 
in your own home than for Budd Kennedy, who, every one 
knows, is rather short-tempered and none too liberal. I ain't 
much to look at, but I'm honest and true, my girl, and I'll do my 
best to make you happy." 

Mandy stood silent, but a suspicious mist dimmed the hard- 
ness of her eyes. " Do you mean to say, Tom Kennedy, that 
you've gone and built that house for me ? " 

" Sure as shootin', Mandy." 

" And never said a word about it — you're a greater fool than 
I cal'lated on — -" 



446 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

"Well, I'm your fool, Mandy; no one else's. Listen here. 
Sweetheart's gone, and if she come back she'll be marryin' one 
of them boys. She'll never be at home in the Valley Inn again 
and you're all alone. Budd and his wife don't need you, for 
Sarah's forehanded and bossy enough herself — the Lord knows 
how Budd lives with her — well, it's his business and no 
concern of mine; but don't you think I ain't seen how things 
are goin', and they ain't goin' your way much — and I reckon 
you know it. Now, here's a new place," Tom smiled jocu- 
larly — " where you'll have your own way — your own home, 
Mandy — stage rides free and the best driver in all these parts 
for your husband. I'm tired askin' you, Mandy. It's now or 
never. If it's now, God bless you — if it's never, out of this 
accursed valley I go, and I'll never come back." 

Mandy stood quietly looking into the river but not seeing it. 
She was deeply touched by Tom's devotion, but her New Eng- 
land training and naturally reticent nature prevented her show- 
ing it, the building of the house for her appealed to her greatly, 
at last — at last she could have a home for her very own and 
Tom's. What would she do if he were indeed to leave the 
valley ? Who else in all the wide world cared for her ? Ques- 
tions that could not be answered. She could no longer stay if 
bluff, cheery Tom went. She had so long been accustomed to 
his appearance at the kitchen door and his invariable greeting, 
" I'm waitin', Mandy." And as if in answer to her thought 
Tom said, " I'm waitin', Mandy." 

" It's mighty good of you, Tom — " and Mandy's voice was 
softer than Tom had ever heard it — " to be buildin' a house for 
me all these years, when I cal'late I've refused you nigh on 
to forty times, and I can't see why you're wantin' me when 
there's so many clever and pretty girls to pick from. I'll say 
this — and I had ought to be in that kitchen this very minute 

seein' to the dishing up when Sweetheart comes back, and 

she'll not stay long in that furrin' land — she'll not be happy 
with that wicked stern old man and that mushy, soft old woman 
— I'll think about it. I ain't right happy with Sarah Kennedy, 
though I can't complain and, Tom, deep down in my heart I 
know how good and patient you've been — Tom ! didn't you 
hear that crash? It's the willow pattern meat-platter like's 
not," and Mandy was off at a rapid pace to see to things. 



LATEK PEOSE WOEKS 447 

Tom stood under the tree and smiled. " I've roped that 
critter, sure's you're born. She'll pitch and buck a bit, that's 
only natural but she'll gentle all right. I all' as was a master 
hand at taming wild critters," mused Tom. 



Chapter XVIII 

GILBERT AND CHARLIE 

Gilbert Lee, busy at his easel touching and re-touching one of 
his wonderful pictures of the Yosemite, working steadily with 
tight closed lips and bent brows, did not hear the rat-tat-tat at 
the door which announced a visitor. The door opened and un- 
invited Charlie entered his brother's studio. " Hello, Charlie," 
said Gilbert, glancing around, " just a moment — take a chair 
and a cigar. I'll be through here shortly." The brothers had 
not met since their return from the Valley after the burial of 
Marion's father, and now Charlie stood silently fingering his 
watch chain. Noting his unusual silence — he who always 
came in like " a rushing mighty wind " with noise and bustle 
— Gilbert turned and looked keenly at him. It was not the 
first time by many that Charlie had stood silent before his elder 
brother — confessed to some debts or delinquency and had 
been helped out, and now with a sigh Gilbert supposed here 
was another trouble. 

" What's in the wind now, old man ? Out with it. There's 
no use beating about the bush." 

" No, there isn't," replied Charlie, straightening his shoulders 
and lifting his head, " though it's not what you think. The 
fact is, Gil, I want to ask you a question, and I want an honest 
answer. How is it between you and Sweetheart? Anything 
doing ? " 

A slowly rising flush tinged Gilbert's face, but he replied 
steadily enough, " Nothing doing yet that I'm aware of, why ? " 

" Well, you see, you've always known her and you must feel 
more like a father to her " — Gilbert winced — " and I wanted 
to tell you that, well, to my thinking she's the only girl on 
earth, and I — well, Gil, I want to marry her." 

Gilbert's faced paled. " And she ? Does she know ? " 



448 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" She does not ; I wanted to speak to you first and besides I 
haven't seen any signs that were lucky signs, and I thought I'd 
wait." 

Gilbert turned and began absently touching in the background 
of his picture — " Then you are not sure that she cares ? " 

" ~No, I am not, but I think I could make her care." 

Silence fell between the brothers. Charlie waited but, never 
patient, was the first to speak. " Well ? " 

" I think I must have time to consider a little, lad. She has 
been so upset by the many and strange changes in her life that 
she has not, I am sure, even thought of being in love with you 
or any man." Charlie smiled a little at that — he thought he 
knew girls better than " old Gil." " You must let the child 
alone. Let her go home with her grandparents and spend the 
winter and then when the spring comes, if you are in the same 
mind still and go to her she may understand you better. Pos- 
sibly she may want to find Madam jNeble and sing. I don't 
know." 

" That's all right, Gil, but suppose she should see one of 
those Kilties out there and take a fancy to him — What 
then ? " 

" Well, if she does I take it that it's not your happiness nor 
mine so much as hers that we're seeking. Let the best man 
win." 

" If he did, Gil, you'd be the chap. You're right. You al- 
ways are." Charlie held out his hand and shook Gilbert's heart- 
ily. " Let it go at that. I'll try to be as much a man as you 
are, and I'll wait — but I'm mortal glad that I don't have to 
buck up against you, for I'd have no chance at all." 

Gaily humming a tune, Charlie left the room and Gilbert was 
alone. He painted no more that day. His had always been a 
life of renunciation: first when his father died, he had his 
mother and the children ; and he had struggled through college 
and educated Charlie and Mollie, and had always been to them 
the old man — affectionately, it is true, but still " the old 
man — " and to-day it hurt. For the first time in all the 
years of self-sacrifice he was asking why — why — why must 
one always give and another always take! He put aside his 
easel and went to walk. Up those hills which guard the city 



LATEK PKOSE WOEKS 449 

he climbed, out farther and farther from the haunts of men, 
unmindful of distance, unwearied and almost unthinking Gil- 
bert strode along in the solitude ; with no eye to see, no heart to 
sympathise, he fought the good fight. The hours of agony 
passed. Only God and his own soul knew what the issue had 
cost him. There must be no rivalry with his brother. He 
should have a clear field, and then if he failed he would try for 
her love, and if indeed she only thought of him as Charlie said, 
well, his life should be hers to guard as far as possible from all 
ill. Charlie was dear, but Charlie was volatile. He might 
make her happy, and again he might not. He could not but 
remember that he had had a good deal of trouble with Charlie 
in his upbringing, and this was by no means his first love. 
There was Alice Archambeau, and Elsie Keep and Mary 
Wilkins. He had been perfectly devoted to each in turn and 
then promptly forgotten them. " Marion/' he told himself, 
" was different from these girls," but could she hold his broth- 
er's affection ? and would she love him ? " That she did not 
now in that way he was assured, and he had gained time, time 
for Charlie to get disenchanted if it was to be, and for Marion 
to know her own heart. 

Footsore and weary in body and mind, but serene of soul, 
Gilbert Lee returned to his rooms. He had fought the battle 
of his life and come off conqueror. 

Chapter XIX 

MARION IN SCOTLAND 

Slowly the dreary winter wore away to Marion in her new 
Scottish home. It was a story and a half stone cottage with 
tiny windows set in deep embrasures, and a long and narrow 
garden fenced in by a high stone wall. The trees were all 
slipped and pruned carefully, all the cast-off branches saved 
and tied in little bundles for kindling. Every inch of the tiny 
garden was cultivated ; thrift and economy was everywhere vis- 
ible in this little Scottish town. Accustomed to the vastness 
of America, its lavish extravagance and largeness of life, Marion 
could only liken this new home to the little toy villages with 



450 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

which she had played in her childhood. She who had always 
led a life of absolute freedom from restraint chafed under 
the annoyance of always being " looked after/' as her grand- 
mother called the constant espionage with which she was sur- 
rounded. If she rode the shaggy pony with which her grand- 
father had thoughtfully provided her, her rides were rigidly 
limited, and old Sandy in a long shabby coat and velveteen 
breeches, mounted on a raw-boned steed of uncertain age but 
always ^known as " the colt," accompanied her, gfrumbling 
every step of the way, for Sandy did not take kindly to leaving 
his ga-arden for horseback riding, but he was none the less 
absolutely conscientious, and the lassie was brought safely back 
to the very minute as directed by her grandfather. If she 
walked, Elspie must accompany her, also with grumbling, for 
Elspie didn't like the task of chaperone any better than did 
Sandy, and Marion rebelled against it all. " It's no' right, 
my lassie, that you should go about unprotected," her grand- 
mother would argue. " Eolks has aye bitter tongues and there 
would be no end of talk. Your grandfather is an elder in the 
kirk, and has need to ' luke well to the ways o' his household/ 
and you should think shame of yourself that you'd be wantin' 
to rin about alone like the common ones." Thus hedged in; 
going to kirk on the Sabbath, singing the Psalms appointed 
by the precentor (organ there was none), with the congregation ; 
walking home, listening to the reading of the Book and the 
long prayers afterward; debarred from writing letters to Mol- 
lie and Gilbert or Mandy ; no secular subject broached from sun- 
set to sunset; no secular paper or book opened; no housework 
done, Marion hated those Sabbath days with all her heart. 
She tried to keep busy, but time hung heavy on her hands. She 
began to long for the blessed freedom of her valley home, for 
the friends who loved her. She wet her pillow nightly with 
longing tears for Gilbert and Mollie and — yes, Charlie. Even 
Mandy and Tom, at their distance, seemed angelic to the home- 
sick girl. She lived again in sleepless nights her untram- 
meled life ; rode Dandy through -the grand and solemn arches of 
the pines; saw again the dear valley with its singing river, 
the rainbow-tinted waterfalls, the shadowy mountains, and the 
longing grew. She ceased to ride the pony and to walk beyond 



LATEB PBOSE WORKS 451 

the confines of the little garden; she could not eat the oaten 
cakes and coarse Scotch fare; grew pale and thin and sang no 
more. Long hours she sat with the hated knitting in her lap, 
taking no stitch. Spring came ; violets opened their blue eyes, 
feathery spireas shook their snowy plumes and golden gorse be- 
gan to glow in the fence corners, but Marion took no pleasure in 
them. She would stand on the little bridge spanning the burn 
and, listening to the tinkling of the water, think only of home 
— home and heartsick to be rid of Scotland forever and see 
again her own mountains. She was standing so disconsolately 
one weary day when she heard her old name called. " Sweet- 
heart, hello, Sweetheart." Her heart stood still. That name 
belonged to her past life. Who in all Scotland? The answer 
was not far to seek, for racing down the hillside from the main 
road, suit case in hand came Charlie. In the joy of the mo- 
ment Marion ran to him, Charlie's arms were about her and 
his kisses on her lips. With a burst of tears Marion surren- 
dered herself to the excitement of the moment, the unexpected 
coming of one of her home folks. 

" Charlie, Charlie," she sobbed, " I want them so. Oh, I 
want them so ! Tell me, how are they all ? " 

" Why, why, my little Sweetheart, what is this ? It's a very 
pale and thin and sorrowful Sweetheart." He held her off at 
arm's length and looked in her tear-wet face. " Cry, my lit- 
tle girl, cry to your heart's content, my coat is shower proof — " 

Laughing and crying and clinging to his hands, Marion grad- 
ually regained control of her nerves, listened greedily for every 
scrap of news from home, and Charlie explained his unan- 
nounced coming. 

" You see," he said, " I came in on the Robert Bruce — took 
the little train — such a funny behind-the-time train, Sweet- 
heart, and came on to Althol : Dear me, but it's a forsaken hole, 
cab there was none, but a grisly old guy informed me that 
i the walking was gude,' so I started and I walked and walked 
until I saw you on the bridge and — well, that's all. I'm here, 
and if you want to go home you are going." 

" Marion ! Marion ! " came in shrill tones from the cottage 
door. " It'll be for you to come in now and do your samples. 
Your grandmither can't abide idle lassies — " 



452 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" That's Elspie," explained Marion. " Six o'clock breakfast, 
seven o'clock prayers, eight o'clock house duties, nine o'clock 
knitting, ten o'clock samples and so on all day and every day." 
She was laughing now and she had not laughed for weeks. 

Charlie laughed with her, though he could not but see the 
pathetic side of her story, and then he mimicked Elspie's sharp 
tones. " You're surely not wasting all the afternoons in idle- 
ness ? " 

" Surely not," she replied, " every hour has its own duty and 
eight o'clock finds us all in bed, lights out." 

u O ye gods and little fishes!" ejaculated Charlie. "Just 
as I begin to get awake, you go to bed with the chickens." 

They wandered along the little winding path to the house, and 
Marion began to notice the violets. At the door stood Angus 
Campbell and his wife. They had seen the couple coming home 
and disapproval stern and certain sat upon Angus Campbell's 
brow. 

" Grandfather, Grandmother ! " cried Marion joyfully, 
" Charlie has come. You remember Charlie Lee, don't you ; 
oh, I'm so glad." 

" You are welcome to our home," began Angus, " but it 
would have been more seemly to have come to the door before," 
— but his wife broke in timidly and yet it seemed with some 
courage — " Welcome, Mr. Lee, come right in. Marion, hang 
the kettle. Mr. Lee'll be wantin' a cup of tea " (she said tay), 
and all friction was averted for the time being. 

Charlie at once understood the restricted life which had so 
worn upon Marion, and in his heart he vowed to take her 
home, but he began at once in his eager way to explain that 
having business in Edinburg he decided to come and see his 
little friend — that he would have gone to the cottage first but 
seeing her on the bridge could not resist going to greet her first. 

" She's not looking first-rate. She's pale and thin." 

" Yes," said the grandmother, " I don't know why the lassie 
doesn't thrive in our climate. She doesn't eat over much and 
maybe it's a bit harsh for her." 

Later in the afternoon Charlie and Angus Campbell sat alone 
in the little living room, and Charlie spoke in his direct way 
straight to the point. " Mr. Campbell, I am in love with your 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 453 

grand-daughter and I ask you, as the head of your family, for 
permission to tell her so." 

Angus knit his burly eyebrows and set his thin lips in a 
straight line. After a moment's consideration he spoke slowly. 
" I thank you, sir, for the honor done our house, but I must ken 
twa things. What is your religion, sir, and what of substance 
have you to offer my grandchild in exchange for the home she 
now has % — " 

" My religion, sir ? well, you see, we're not very keen on re- 
ligion as you understand it. We don't lie, nor steal, nor abuse 
our neighbors but — " 

" Sir, I am an elder in the kirk where my father served be- 
fore me. Eor a matter of forty years I have gone in and 
out amongst them — and no blame has ever attached to me, I 
understand the word of God, and I believe as the larger cate- 
chism orders. I wad know how ye stand on the doctrines of 
foreordination and election. Are ye sound on the doctrines ? " 

" I don't know much about doctrines," blundered poor Char- 
lie. " When we were little shavers my mother stood us at her 
knee and taught us this, i What doth the Lord require of thee 
but to do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with 
thy God ' (Micah 6 :8), and somehow she never let us forget it, 
and it stuck. It's all the creed I know. I've tried to live up 
to that and as for the other " — stuff he was about to say but 
wisely changed it to " things. I don't know anything at all." 

" It's time, Mr. Lee, it's full time that ye did know and 
knowin' tak' heed to yersel'. Ye may be elected to salvation 
or foreordained to eternal damnation." 

" Don't believe it!" ejaculated foolish Charlie. "If you 
had five children would you foreordain four of them to eternal 
woe and heap on the fifth all the riches of Heaven, and never 
give 'em a chance to help themselves What's that text, ' Like 
as a father pitieth his children ' — " 

" Sir, sir," — and now Angus Campbell was walking the 
floor in angry strides. " You, sir, I perceive are in the gall of 
bitterness and the bonds of iniquity. You are an unbeliever — 
and unbelievers are shut out of the Kingdom — and, sir — I'll 
no'—" 

Here an interruption occurred in the shape of Grandmother 



454 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

Campbell, staggering under an armful of wood which she nois- 
ily dumped upon the hearth. " Hoot, man," she cried, " and 
what for s'old I be lugging wood for the fire while's you're 
walkin' the fhire and haverin'. Think shame of yourself and 
come now, do you mend the fire. Mr. Campbell, there's bit o' 
wark ai the ga-ardin that I'd like you're help in if you be so 
minded." Thus dismissed Charlie lost no time in seeking out 
Marion. He saw her at the far end of the little garden. She 
was sitting on a bench built around a great oak tree, a pathetic 
little figure in her black drapery, her pretty fluffy hair drawn 
straight back, according to her grandmother's wishes and knotted 
tightly on her head ; her hands were lying idly in her lap — 
beside the hated knitting which she was never allowed to be 
without, if resting. Her head was bent and she was evidently 
far away in dreams from the surroundings. Charlie, coming 
upon her there, realized that here was no lovesick maiden, only 
a little country girl pining for her home, and his heart re- 
sponded to the silent call. He advanced briskly. Charlie 
could do nothing by halves, and began. " Look here, Sweet- 
heart. I've just come from an encounter with the old goat 
in there — " 

"Charlie!" 

" Never mind, if he ain't a goat I never saw one — from his 
old gray beard to his hard head, and let me tell you he can do 
some butting with that same hard head. I've been there, Sweet- 
heart, and he's hammered at me till I feel like a football. Said 
I, \ Mr. Campbell, I love your granddaughter and want to marry 
her.' Said he, ' Sir, what's your religion and your substance ? 
Do you accept the doctrines ? ' ( Don't know 'em,' said I. 
He ramped up and down and his bushy eyebrows took part in 
the discussion. I wish you could have seen those eyebrows. 
' Sir,' said he, ' this is no time for flippancy. Do you subscribe 
to the doctrines of my kirk — f oreordination and election ? ' 
' Sir,' said I, ' I don't know much about doctrines, never having 
been brought up with them, but I'd think it a mighty mean 
father, let alone a just God who in cold, calculating blood would 
foreordain some few of his children to heaven and send all the 
rest to hell. I'd not do it myself,' — said I. i It's not fair — * 
And then, Sweetheart, he jumped at me, I declare he did, and he 



LATEE PKOSE WOEKS 455 

yelled, ' Blasphemer, unbeliever — the rankest heretic/ and at 
this your dear little grandmother, scenting the battle afar off, 
came in with a mighty clatter threw down an armful of wood, 
ordered him — ordered mind you — to build the fire and fired 
me out here." 

Sweetheart laughed — the first clear ringing laugh since she 
had been in Scotland. " You didn't, Charlie. You never did," 
between peals of mirth. 

" Well," agreed Charlie, " I'll acknowledge that it, wasn't 
put that way, but I've given you the gist of the matter and 
now it's up to you, Sweetheart. I want you to know that I'm in 
earnest, though I grant the beginning isn't very propitious," — 
Charlie frowned at the recollection — " and I'm much afraid the 
old goat — excuse me, Sweetheart — '11 never consent. He was 
so worked up over the doctrines that he never got down to the 
substance, and when a Scotchman don't get to the substance I'm 
afraid it's no go. I can't get sentimental just now, Sweetheart, 
it's been too funny; but if you'll stop laughing a minute I'll 
tell you how things stand. I love you, my little girl, and 
I want you for my wife. Will you marry me and come home ? 
Will you, will you ? " He took her two hands in his and waited. 
She lifted her eyes to his face, looked long and searchingly 
into his eyes, a faint rose-flush dawned upon the pallor of her 
cheek, her eyes filled with tears. " I do want to go home — I 
do — I do. Oh, take me home, Charlie," and then more slowly, 
" I don't know about the rest. I have never thought much 
about such things. Life has been so full of other subjects, but, 
Charlie, I don't think — " 

" Don't say it, Sweetheart — don't say it. Take time to think. 
I'll tell you what : I'll get you home somehow, back in the dear 
old valley and when you're well and strong I'll ask you again. 
Gilbert said I was to consider your happiness first, and I will." 

" Gilbert ! " — the name was almost in a whisper. 

" Yes, Gil, of course. I told him, and he's a trump, he al- 
ways is. He said, ' Wait until spring and take your chance, but 
it's her happiness first.' Now I'm not going to bother you, but 
don't you think I'm going to give up the ship, not by a long 
shot — There's Grandmother coming — we'll talk to her." 

" Grandmother," said Marion, " Charlie wants me to go 
home with him, and I, oh, I do so want to go." 



456 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

" Mrs. Campbell," interjected Charlie, " I love your grand- 
daughter and I was trying to explain it to Mr. Campbell when he 
jumped on me — I beg your pardon " (Marion's eyes laughed) , 
I mean began about the doctrines, and you see I don't know 
'em. Now Marion don't seem to want me just now because 
she's homesick. You see, Scotland don't agree with her and, 
dear little lady " — Charlie could be very persuasive when he 
chose — ; " can't we get her home again ? Never mind me, that'll 
keep, only the little girl will die here. Don't you see how un- 
happy and sick she is ? " x 

" Yes, she's thinner and don't thrive," said Grandmother, " it 
might be managed, but the lassie could never go with you 
alone." 

" Why not? " asked Charlie. 

"It 'ud no be respectable and becoming her grandfather's 
bairn. No — no — I'd never consent to that — there's Elspie." 

" Elspie would never go," said Marion. " She don't believe 
in tempting an overruling Providence, she says, by going on the 
water wi' just a board a'tween her and death." 

Charlie, seeing that his point was gained, cut off discussion by 
saying, " I'll go down to the little tavern in the village there and 
with your permission I'll come again to-morrow and we'll de- 
sign ways and means. Could you not go ? " 

" I ? Oh, no. Angus would never permit that, and we 
have never been separated." 

" Well, I'll find a way, speak to Mr. Campbell and I'll come 
again to-morrow. Good afternoon, Mrs. Campbell. By-bye, 
Sweetheart." Charlie lifted his hat and was gone. 

After he left, her grandmother sat quietly beside Marion. 
At length she spoke. " Tell me, lassie, do you love that young 
man? Your grandfather would never consent." 

" Because he don't know and believe the doctrine ? " 

" Partly that but mainly I think because he was o'er foolish 
and angered him. I'm fain to say he didn't use any diplomacy 
in speakin' to him. You see, everybody gives to grandfather 
and he demands great respect and why should he not and him an 
elder in the kirk there forty years." 

" I don't know," said Marion thoughtfully, " whether I love 
him that way or not. I love them all — Gilbert and Mollie and 



LATEK PROSE WOEKS 457 

the children. They've all been so good to me, and Tom — Tom 
Kennedy and Mandy. You see they're all my folks, and until 
you came they were all I had." 

The astute old lady asked no more questions. So long as 
Marion could couple Charlie's name with them all, including 
Tom and Mandy she saw no cause for " worritting " but the 
prospect of leaving Scotland she regarded as more serious. 

" I'm not sure your grandfather will consent," she began. 

" I'm not going to ask Grandfather," asserted Marion. " I 
came for a visit and I've had such a nice one, Granny dear, 
and now I want to go home. I'm pining for home. I'll die 
here if you keep me. All day I think of my valley, all night 
I dream of it. I must go after I've been there, perhaps I will 
come again, but never to live here, oh, never — never ! " 

" When the door was shut in the father's face the bairn was 
shut out also," mused the old lady, more to herself than to 
Marion. Elspie appeared with a pan of food for her fowls, 
and Marion called, " Elspie, come here. Will you go with me 
across the ocean to California if I promise to send you back by 
the next boat ? " 

" Is it me, Marion, that will be goin' that long road over 
the watter just to be sent back ? Na, na. I'll juist bide on 
the dry ground. Hoots, hoots, lassie, I'm no going to chance 
walking on the watter where the boats go down. I'll stay by 
my moors. The burn is all the watter I want. But," added 
Elspie, looking kindly at the girl's disappointed face, " when 
I was at the Manse yestreen getting a setting of agis from the 
minister's wife I saw the minister's sister there. She's on a 
visit and I think she'll be goin' back to the States vera sune. 
The minister's wife and she were speakin' that she'd better go 
before it was too hot, and I'm no sayin' for certain but it might be 
that you could go with her, Marion. Your grandfather wu'd 
be willin' and " — to the grandmother — " she'd best go. She's 
growin' that spindlin' and one of my hens eats more. I'm 
wastin' time now, and the hens waitin' for me. Fix it up, and 
let her go. When she gets home once, you'll see she'll be wantin' 
to come back to bonny Scotland, for it's well known there's no 
place like it in all the world." 



458 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

Chapter XX 

MARION AT HOME 

One glorious, never-to-be-forgotten morning the great steamer, 
with flags flying, swung into the loveliest harbor in the world, the 
Golden Gate. Marion was on deck. She had been straining 
her eyes for the first sight of land, and when she saw afar off 
the undulating line of shore, tears filled her eyes. " My beau- 
tiful land ! " she cried. " Never, never again will I leave you ! " 
And then the landing was made, and Gilbert and Charlie (who 
had preceded her by a month), and Mollie met her and she wept 
for joy. 

" How good, how good to be at home, and to see you all," 
she sobbed in Mollie' s arms. 

" Poor little homesick girl," and Mollie folded her close to 
her tender heart and crooned over her as she would have done 
over one of her own babies, and Marion rested, soul and heart 
and body, in that dear and congenial home, until the cool days 
of August came, and then she went back to the valley. 

How beautiful the golden gorse, the little sunflower growing 
everywhere along the road, the ox-eyed daisies, and gorgeous 
geraniums ! how grand the cloud-capped mountains ! How mu- 
sical the waterfalls! And with what delight she greeted the 
birds, the little ouzels darting in and out of the spray, singing 
as they flew ; the robins gathered in convention, the nightingales 
and thrushes, silent now but flitting about. A faint color came 
into her pale cheeks, and her eyes began to lose their pitiful, 
beseeching look. She smiled, yes laughed aloud, when Dandy 
nozzled her affectionately, and she threw her arms around 
Mandy' s muscular neck and kissed her hard cheek repeatedly. 
Mandy, never responsive but visibly affected, undid the clinging 
arms and, muttering; something about " washing up " fled to 
the kitchen. And there was Tom, leaning up in the doorway 
chewing; the same old straw apparently, and saying with insist- 
ence, " Well, Mandy, Marion's home and — I'm waitin'." 

" You go 'long, Tom Kennedy, the house full of folks a 
waitin' for their dinner, and me at my wit's end to get it in in 
time. Here, San Lee, take in them chickens, and as for you, 



LATEE PKOSE WOEKS 459 

Tom Kennedy, get in there and eat your dinner — maybe " — as 
an after thought — " there'll be a pumpkin pie and some dough- 
nuts waitin' for you later after the folks are off sightseein' 
around the place." 

Marion had her own little room. It was kept just as she 
left it, the pretty sunrise quilt upon the bed, the many colored, 
knitted rugs upon the floor, both the work of Susan's busy 
hands; the dainty white curtains at the windows, the simple 
shelves filled with books by Gilbert's care ; all — all were to 
the girl messages of love, and Marion was happy in the only 
home that she had ever known. Gilbert was domiciled in his 
studio as usual, and soon their life dropped into its old grooves. 
They rode together, they walked, they talked, they sang, and 
Marion often accompanied him into the mountains when he was 
sketching, with no chaperone, unless Dandy, standing with bridle 
over head for hours, might be considered one. In their walks 
and rides and talks Gilbert, by no word, or look, or tone, seemed 
more than the elder brother that he had elected to be. Charlie, 
he said to himself, often with close-shut lips, " must have his 
chance free and unbiased." Often Marion, her deerskin dress 
donned for the occasion, visited her Indian friends. Ahweiha 
was there and led her always first to the chief of the tribe, for 
was she not the daughter of the White God, and highest honors 
must be paid to her? Wonderful baskets, woven so fine that 
they would hold water, and with such brilliant and beautiful 
colors woven into their story language, which never were seen 
by purchasers haunting the valley ; marvelous chief's rugs with 
the sign of good luck, among all the tribes the Swastika, woven 
in beaded moccasins and belts of wonderful workmanship, and 
a dressed doe-skin suit, soft as the down on the breast of the 
eider duck, beaded and fringed, were brought to her as gifts. 
The presentation was made with great formality by the chiefs 
and under chiefs, arrayed in gorgeous robes. " The daughter 
of the White God — whose eyes are as the stars of heaven in a 
dark sky, whose voice is as the voice of falling water and the 
soaring nightingale, whose foot is as light as the roe upon 
the mountain, and whose heart is as true as the North Star, 
ever turning to her old friends; who commune with the 
Great Spirit to whom the White God has journeyed — deign 
to accept our gifts and homage." 



460 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

And Marion replied sweetly and wisely, " The Great Spirit 
blesses you, because you are so good, the White God from his 
home on high is pleased, and his daughter thanks you from 
her heart. May you prosper and be happy, and she begs you 
to accept these small gifts from the great city." 

Here she presented them with a medley of knives and beads 
and bright woven cloth : to Ahweiha she brought bracelets and 
a necklace of jade cunningly set in gold with golden pendants, 
which delighted that faithful squaw beyond words : to the great 
chieftains she brought a rifle of finest workmanship, and to the 
squaws, beads and wools of all colors, and many trinkets of lit- 
tle cost but dear to their aboriginal heart. 

So the summer waned. Peaceful and happy was Marion. 
Red grew the sumachs in the lowlands, golden the grain in the 
valleys, purple the asters on the hills, and blue the gentians at 
their base. Parnassia and, buttercups blanketed the bogs; 
golden-rod waved its golden plumes; mountains were clothed 
in light, mellowed and softened by rising mist, and at night frost 
crystals, most beautiful, diamonded alike flowers and grasses. 
Charlie came again and made merry in the Valley Inn. Marion 
was so glad to see him; like two irresponsible children they 
laughed and sang and wandered over the hills. It was only 
when he grew grave and assayed to serious talk that Marion also 
grew grave and with her intuitive woman's wit warded off the 
question which she knew that he had come to ask. 

One lovely night — they had wandered far that day and 
were sitting on the steps of the porch watching the late rising 
of the moon, the little river near by was singing its cheerful 
song, an owl was hooting solemnly from some tree and a tiny 
screech owl was calling in shrill tones from another — " Sweet- 
heart," began Charlie, " you remember what I said to you in 
the little garden in Scotland ? " 

" Hoot, hoot," interrupted the owl in the tree. 

Charlie, with such a bump of humor as he possessed, could 
not but smile, but went on seriously. " I am here again to ask 
you, Sweetheart, the same question." 

" Screech, screech," came from the tree, and all the toads and 
grasshoppers and katy-dids seemed to rouse themselves and begin 
their concert. It was too much. Marion's clear ringing laugh 
was joined in by Charlie in spite of himself. 



LATEE PKOSE WOEKS 461 

" Hoot, hoot, hoot," cried the owl, and Marion as soon as she 
could speak, said, " Never mind, Charlie ; they've the best of 
it to-night. You can't be sentimental if you try, and my dear 
— my dear — you think you love me and you do, even as I 
love you, but some day you'll meet a girl who'll teach you that 
you can't live without her. Tell me, Charlie, honestly couldn't 
you live without me ? " 

" I might live, Sweetheart," began Charlie, " but I want 
you — and you don't know — " 

" Hoot, hoot," cried the owl. 

" Confound that bird, and all birds and beasts and insects ! 
How's a man to talk sense in this menagerie? Let's go iu 
where it's quiet." 

" No, dear boy, not to-night, nor any night, for that question. 
Let the owls have it, for though you don't think so now, after 
awhile you'll understand. Go home, Charlie, and get busy, and 
some time later when the owls have gone into winter quarters, 
come again, but do not, clear boy, indulge in any false hopes, 
for it cannot be." 

" Some one else, Sweetheart ? Have any of those Kilties 
dared to love you ? " 

" No Kilties, upon my word, Charlie, dared to do so. If 
they had, my grandfather would have drawn his terrible eye- 
brows together and said louder than that owl, ' Hoot, hoot, man ; 
dinna ye understand that lassie is the granddaughter o' ye'r elder 
in the kirk and she's nane for you.' " "Marion was still laugh- 
ing, and as the little owl took up its plaint again she rose quietly, 
gave Charlie her hand and said, " Let's go in, the dew is fall- 
ing." 

Chapter XVI 



It was a few days later that Gilbert and Marion stood together 
in the grove of big trees. Charlie had gone back to the city, 
alleging business as the reason and Gilbert did not under- 
stand. It was growing late for tourists, and the nights were 
frosty; red glowed the stems and branches of the manzanita, 
and squirrels were leaping from tree to tree, gathering their 



462 THE OLD SCKAP BOOK 

winter stores, and chattering, like gossipy old women, as they 
worked: on boulders the iridescent Oxyria blossomed, and Gil- 
bert, noting these signs of advancing winter and knowing that 
he must soon leave the valley, looked anxiously at the girl beside 
him, " Her happiness," he said to himself ; " her happiness, first, 
last and all the time." Then he began to speak of his brother, 
of his cheeriness and gaiety, of his honesty and industry, of 
his great heart. " You can't help loving him, Sweetheart, he's 
so lovable, and he's sure to make his way in the world. He's 
a fit mate for you, dear, and will make you very happy, and I 
know he loves you and is very anxiously waiting to tell you so. 
Don't refuse him, my dear, for indeed he's a fine fellow and will 
love you all his life. You cannot stay here this long and lonely 
winter with only Mandy for a companion. I must go back to 
the city and what will you do ? " 

Marion glanced from under her long lashes at the speaker. 
She noticed that his face was white and strained and that his 
hands were locked together until the knuckles gleamed white 
from the strain. A glad light sprang to her eyes, a faint smile 
curved her lovely lips. She was no longer a child, but a woman 
with all a woman's intuition. " Gilbert," she said softly, " have 
you ever read a poem called ( Miles Standish ' ? " 

" Yes, I think so, sometime ago." 

" Do you remember Priscilla and what she said when John 
Alden went to plead for Miles ? " 

Gilbert's face went pale and then flushed to the roots of his 
hair, " What do you mean ? Oh, do you mean ? My little, 
little Sweetheart ! Tell me — " 

" Why don't you speak for yourself — Gilbert ? " Softly, 
caressingly the name fell from her lips, and that moment Charlie 
was forgotten, the whole world was forgotten, by Gilbert Lee. 
He gathered the pretty dimpling maiden in his arms and kissed 
the smiling lips, and the gossiping squirrels were the only wit- 
nesses of this old time idyl, and then in the afterglow Gilbert 
and Marion stood in the little graveyard by the flower-decked 
graves of Marion's people. She had a fancy to have her be- 
trothal sanctified here by the graves of her dead, and Gilbert, 
taking her two hands in his, said solemnly, " Marion, here in 
the presence of your people I solemnly promise to love, honor 



LATEE PROSE WORKS 463 

and cherish you until my life's end." Quietly, hand in hand, 
they walked home, and when the first tiny flakes of snow began 
to float about the ambient air, percursor of the winter storms, 
Marion and Gilbert left the valley. The Archambeaus had built 
on one of the hills a tiny cottage and gladly greeted Marion. 
" I knew it," cried Mollie, laughing and crying and hugging 
Marion, when Gilbert told her. " I was sure of it, Gilbert, 
although you were so sly. How did you find him out, Sweet- 
heart?" " 

Marion glanced slyly at Gilbert and smiled. " It was a task," 
she admitted. 

" And she had to ask me herself," laughed Gilbert. 

" I never did ; vou know I never did," — Marion flushed pain- 
fully. 

" Well, if you didn't, you came mighty near doing it, but 
never mind, Sweetheart, I forgave you long ago. And, Mollie, 
we're to have the very nicest wedding, and, what do you think, 
Tom Kennedy and Mandy are coming ! " 

A little later there was a quiet wedding in a little wooden 
chapel built upon the ruins of a great church, and Charlie was 
best man. " I'll find your mate if she's on this earth," he 
whispered as he congratulated her, " and when I do I'll marry 
her." As the last fateful words were said, the prayers ended, 
and Gilbert and Marion, man and wife, turned to walk down 
the aisle, they encountered Tom Kennedy and Mandy coming 
up. Tom, in an amazing brown suit with a resplendent velvet 
vest lavishly embroidered in red roses, a blue tie and patent 
leather boots, which made him limp as he walked, and Mandy 
in a dove-colored silk — " made too large so's to have plenty 
to make over with " — and a white straw bonnet (Mandy de- 
spised hats as too frivolous) trimmed with loops of white rib- 
bon and tied discreetly under her chin. She walked like a sol- 
dier ordered to the front, sure of death, but determined to do 
and die if need be; looking neither to the right nor left, nor 
at the man by her side, but in her heart proud of him and of his 
appearance and resolved to make him a good wife and keep 
his home as it should be kept. " Her house," he had said, and 
after so manv homeless years that little pronoun appealed to her. 
She glanced half shyly at Tom as they stood at the altar, her 



464: THE OLD SCBAP BOOK 

husband soon to be, and she thought him a likely man and was 
glad and happy that he was hers, but she only said, " Don't 
twiddle your thumbs that way. What'll folks think? And 
don't forget that ring's in your vest pocket. You're sure to 
drop it." And after the ceremony, what congratulations upon 
this second and unexpected marriage! Tom stood erect and 
smiling. " I told you, Sweetheart, that sooner or later I'd 
gentle her — and you see I have." 

" Gentle her, indeed," snorted Mandy ; " not much you 
ain't. You may as well know that I'm not one of your bronchs 
to be roped and gentled. I came of my own accord because 
you're that shiftin' I jist know you'd let that new house of 
yours go to rack and ruin for all the broom you'd use upon it." 

Tom winked slyly at Gilbert and accepted his invitation to 
the wedding breakfast, and it was a merry party that crowded 
around the little table in that little cottage. Of course the chil- 
dren were there and Gilbert, Jr., made the hit of the day when 
he said, " Uncle Gilbert, what made you let Sweetheart ' rope 
you in,' and what does that mean, Uncle Gilbert ? " There was 
a general laugh, Charlie's loudest among them, in which Marion 
did not join. 

" When did you hear that, Gil, my lad? " 

" Why, I heard Tom tell Mandy that she needn't be afeard 
that Sweetheart had roped you in and you'd soon be in the corral 
as tame as tame." 

" I think Gilbert, Jr., it's time for your nap," suggested 
Mollie — wisely carrying off her infant terrible before any 
more secrets were revealed. 

Marion, standing among her husband's kindred, silently and 
happily smiling, yet cast a sudden thought towards that little 
stone cottage in Althol where her own, own people lived. She 
had written them of her intended marriage, and the dear old 
lady had sent her her love and blessing, adding, " Grandfather 
says you are to be verra sure that he is not an irreligious man 
like his brother and that he is sound on the doctrines as becomes 
the husband of his grandchild — and he an elder in the kirk 
for fortv years." Accompanying the letter was a fine old 
family Bible bound in sheepskin and one hundred years old. 
In it were the births and deaths of all the clan — and, joy of 



LATER PROSE WORKS 465 

joys, her dear father's name was reinstated in its proper place ! 

In the salon at Paris there hangs, or hung, a canvas by an 
American artist which has brought to him world-wide reputa- 
tion. It is the portrayal of the first faint utterance of the earth- 
quake which laid proud San Francisco low, and a picture of 
the sudden and awful answer to a young girl's agonized prayer, 
as Marion always believed. 

Upon a dais, slightly raised, stands a maiden with arms and 
eyes uplifted. She is singing, and as she sings there glows a 
light upon her face, the passing of womanly terror into the cer- 
tainty of rescue ; the assurance of a reply to her insistent appeal 
is depicted upon that upraised face. " God is my refuge and 
strength, I will not fear," she sings, and a holy trust is in the 
cry. Her beautiful golden hair falls in a cloud about her shoul- 
ders; her gown, half torn off, reveals the rounded arms and 
swelling bosom; but oblivious of all and unafraid, she stands 
before that awestricken mob, serene and beautiful, calling upon 
the only Power she knew for help in time of her direst need; 
declaring in golden tones her certain trust. At her feet, 
crowded together, stand men and women in evening dress, their 
faces, pallid and terrified, visible in the early dawn of day 
which comes in through the window ; electric lights shine dimly 
in the already swaying chandeliers; and in the background 
fallen pictures, tables and chairs mark the beginning of chaos. 
The faces of the crowd after that night of frivolity and sin, 
called by the voice of innocence and faith to a moment's pause, 
are ashen with fear ; upon some lingers the laugh as if frozen ; 
some lips are still curled in ribald jest ; and some eyes, unused 
to tears, conscience-stricken, are shedding them now, as Marion 
sings. A little apart from the throng, of them and yet seeming 
not to be, there stands the tall slender figure of a girl. She is 
robed in black velvet and wears a red, red rose upon her breast ; 
her magnificent blue-black hair is wound with pearls in a coronal 
around her head ; upon arms and neck gleam jewels. Her lovely 
and noble face is lifted towards the singer, drinking in with 
feverish joy the hymns of faith ; her lips are slightly parted as 
she listens. Gone from that face all trace of sorrow and sin 
except that it somehow seems to linger as a faint shadowy mist 



466 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

over the spirit of the moment. For her the earthquake has 
no terrors ; alone, yet with that other girl seeming to dominate 
the picture, she stands; her hands clasped and her eyes raised 
in hope and faith. 

Taken from the fallen building after the earthquake and 
the fire had done its worst, many bodies were laid out on the 
sidewalk for identification. Among them was a young girl, her 
velvet gown soiled and torn, the red rose still clinging crushed 
upon her breast. She had apparently been smothered by the 
rising dust, as her face was uninjured and she rested as though 
but sleeping. Gilbert Lee, passing along, saw her there and 
when he told Marion of the pitiful sight, the girl, so young, so 
lovely and so friendless lying unrecognized among the dead, she 
knew it was Lola. " She was kind to me/' she sobbed ; " but for 
her I might have been beside her." 

" We will claim her, and she shall be buried in our lot," 
announced Mollie, and so it came about that, surrounded by a 
little group of friends, Lola's crushed and bruised body found 
a resting place under the flower-grown sod of the beautiful cem- 
etery, but she lives in all her beauty upon the canvas in Gilbert's 
great picture beside the girl she strove to save, and to both came 
the answer to Marion's prayer. 

God is my refuge and strength, 

A very present help in trouble; 

Therefore will not we fear tho' the earth be removed 

And the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea. 

FINIS 



THE CIGARETTE TWINS 

By Rex 

Bob and Billy were by no means high grade twins, but they 
were twins, and so far in life, the space of eight years, they 
were so exactly alike in size and feature that even their mother 
sometimes was at a loss to know them apart. Billy was the 
controlling spirit. What Billy thought, Bob thought. What 
Billy did, Bob did, so far as he was able. Billy planned all 



LATEE PEOSE WOBKS 467 

the mischief going and Bob loyally carried out his share. They 
were the children of Bob Schaffer, a " Ne'er do well " and his 
wife, Mary, who washed and scrubbed and cleaned and did 
her level best to make their home at least habitable. What she 
did, Bob, the father, undid by precept and example. He was, 
by no means, a very bad man, but neither was he a good one. 
He smoked a good deal, cigarettes by preference, drank, always 
when urged, or he had money or credit for a drink, swore on 
occasion, and was always improvident. All of decency and 
right living that the twins knew was because of that little hard- 
working mother. There were other children, a lot of them, 
but Bob and Billy were the oldest and the heroes of my story. 

Together, always accompanied by a mongrel yellow cur, they 
roamed the streets and alleys of their native city, and together 
fell into all sorts of mischief. From their babyhood up, they 
had been cigarette smokers, and were seldom seen without a 
cigarette in their childish mouths. They would buy the better 
smokes if they had the money, beg if they could see any likely 
chance of obtaining the luxury from some good natured pass- 
er-by, or steal if all other efforts failed. Smoke they would 
and smoke they did. They were little fellows, dark and sun 
dried, not unlike breakfast sausages and had dark old faces un- 
like those of childhood. They ruled the little court where they 
lived and the other children stood in great awe of them, for there 
were two of them to reckon with. When Billy struck, Bob was 
on hand the second blow. Some one had dubbed them, " The 
Cigarette Twins " and the name stuck. They were very proud 
of this cognomen and thought that it conferred great distinction 
upon them. So thought the other little denizens of the Court 
and Bob and Billy in their own vernacular were " IT." 

One fine evening in May when the one tree that graced Alley 
Court was putting out its tender green leaves, and the sparrows 
were already housekeeping in every nook and cranny of the old 
houses, the Court was alive with inhabitants ; men, women, and 
children, all of them poorly clothed, most of them ragged and 
dirty, thronged the sidewalks and narrow street, and among 
them paraded Bob and Billy, each with a cigarette in his mouth, 
and each with a lordly air of owning the whole place, that was 
most annoying to the other boys who also lived in Alley Court 



US THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

and very amusing to an on-looker. Such an on-looker was Dr. 
Sinclair, a fine stalwart young physician, college bred and some- 
thing of an athlete, who had come to New York to begin the 
struggle of professional life. So far Dr. Sinclair had not " got 
on " very far, because his sympathies and labors were too often 
enlisted on the side of the indigent classes and the phenomenally 
wealthy patrons, of which he had read so often, had failed to 
materialize. The doctor^ being of an optimistic nature, did not 
worry much. He was interested in people and just now was 
enjoying himself hugely in watching the swaggering figures of 
Bob and Billy and the envy and admiration of the faces of the 
common boys of the alley. " Here," said he to himself, " is a 
pair that will lead. Bight or wrong, they will be the leaders 
and these other fellows will follow. What a power for good. 
What a power for evil — and they are already smoking cig- 
arettes." 

As they came up towards him, the doctor spoke, " Hello, 
youngsters, which is which % Do you know yourselves apart ? " 

" Oh yes, sir," answered Billy, always the spokesman, " I am 
Billy and this is Bob." 

" Live here ? " questioned the doctor. 

" Just around the corner." 

" You smoke, I see." 

" You can bet we do, say stranger, you haven't a cigarette 
anywhere about you, have you ? " 

" Not I, I didn't want to grow up a little dried up runt of 
a man that couldn't whip a baby. I wanted to be a man. 
Look how tall I am — over six feet — look at my arm," he bared 
his arm, " there's muscle for you and you should see me run. 
You and Bobby couldn't catch me in a month. That's because 
I didn't ever smoke cigarettes." With the admiration of the 
small boy for a grown man, the twins stared at the doctor. 
" Don't you want to come to my rooms and see some things ? " 
he asked. " I've some interesting things there and I wouldn't 
be surprised if I found some nice things to eat. I don't live 
very far from here. It's too late now, but come to-morrow morn- 
ing, I'll be in my office. Here's my card and address." The 
boys took the card, promised to go and the doctor walked on. 
" Now why did I do that ? " queried the doctor, " what can I 



LATEK PEOSE WOBKS 469 

say to those lads to do them any good, but they looked so like 
little smoke-dried old men that I couldn't resist them." 

Promptly at the appointed time, Billy and Bobbie appeared 
at the doctor's office. Some effort had been made to clean their 
faces and their hair was plastered down in a wet mass on their 
foreheads. Each boy had a cigarette in his mouth. " I'm glad 
to see you, boys, come along in," greeted the doctor, taking each 
grimy little hand in his strong clasp. " Sit down, Bobby and 
Billy, I want you to feel at home in my office, I was a boy my- 
self not so very long ago and I like boys around me." On the 
surgical table, the twins observed a great plate of cookies and 
nuts, back of these enticing things, they saw a set of mannikins. 
" Now," said the doctor, after a little pleasant talk which put 
the boys at their ease, " I want to show you something about the 
cigarettes that you are smoking. There's opium in them, and 
that drug stunts the growth of a boy and dulls his mind. 
Now these men," pointing to the figures on the table, " all started 
evenly good healthy boys. This one (the tallest) never used 
tobacco in any form and never drank liquor, and just see what 
a great fellow he grew to be ; this one used to smoke cigars and 
a pipe and take a drink occasionally. Not so big as the other, 
but pretty tall. Now this little fellow was always smoking 
cigarettes. He smoked when he sat down and when he went to 
bed. Indeed, I fear he smoked when in bed and I know he did 
when he was eating his meals. Look at him ! See his little, 
thin wizened face, like a dried apple ; see how thin and flabby 
his arms are ; look at his little pipe stems of legs and his bleary 
eyes. He isn't so tall by a head as No. 1, and it's all owing to 
that fatal cigarette habit. You boys have started down hill 
like this fellow. You smoke cigarettes all the time." 

" Yes sir, yes sir," ejaculated Billy, with no little pride, 
" they call us the Cigarette Twins." 

" Just so, you are twins all right, look alike, are the same 
size, and both smoke together and all the time. Now I have a 
proposition to make to you boys. I want one of you twins 
to give up smoking entirely for six months and I want the other 
one to go on smoking just as he is doing now. At the end of six 
months, I'll give the one who has given up smoking fifty dollars, 
and if at the end of that time you two boys don't find that the 



470 THE OLD SCEAP BOOK 

boy I call my boy isn't bigger and brighter and better every- 
way than the one who does smoke, I'll give him fifty dollars 
also." 

Consternation was in the faces of both boys. Give np smok- 
ing — one of them — " We've alius smoked together," blub- 
bered Bob, " and it ain't a bit of good talking of one smokin' and 
t'other not, we alius do things together. I don't think we could 
do that, sir." 

" I saw your mother the other night," gently said the doctor. 
" She had two or three children hanging to her skirts and a baby 
in arms. She had a faded old gown on and ragged shoes and — 

" I know — I know, doctor," interrupted Billy, " and that 
fifty dollars 'ud buy her a whole lot of things and the kids — 
Bob — Bob — I'm on — I'm it, I'm goin' to earn that money. 
You go on ahead and smoke all you can and at the end of six 
months when I've got a hold of that there fifty dollars — Holy 
Gee. We'll smoke up — " 

"Don't, Bill, don't," pleaded Bob, but Billy had decided. 
" Fifty dollars don't grow on every bush and it'll do a whole lot 
for mother." 

The doctor watched them silently. Billy, he thought, had 
force of character enough to stand the test. He wasn't so sure 
of Bob, but he found himself interested and anxious to make 
the trial. He measured and weighed the boys and found them 
exactly of a height and weight, and the thing was settled. " You 
boys can come to my rooms twice a week. There'll be pictures 
and music and things to eat and you can then make your report 
to me. Billy, toss that cigarette into the basket there and not 
another one must you touch until this day six months. Now, 
I want you both to sign this little pledge." 

"What'll we tell the boys, they'll kid us so?" asked Bob. 

" Tell them, it's a bet. All men bet on something." 

" Don't sign it Bill," pleaded Bob, " we've alius done things 
together and I can't smoke alone." 

" Oh yes you can," comforted Billy, " it's only for six months 
and my jinks, kid, you ain't got nothin' to growl about. Don't 
you think it's going to be darned hard for me to give up smoking 
all of a sudden, but I'm a goin' to do it." Billy signed the 
pledge and Bob also. " Now," said the doctor, "you have given 



LATEK PKOSE WOKKS 471 

me your pledge to do this thing and if you don't I'll call you a 
coward." That word " coward " hurt. Billy didn't know why, 
and he went home feeling more sober than he ever had done in 
his life. So the contest began. Many a time Billy was on 
the point of throwing up the contract and would go off by him- 
self to " have it out " but always he remembered what that fifty 
dollars would mean to his mother, and always the fear of being 
a coward held him. Bobby seeing what a fight Bill was making 
smoked his little weed secretly and alone, and didn't enjoy it 
half so much as he used to do, but because of that smoked all 
the more. As the days and weeks passed Billy began to feel 
better and brighter and wanted to do things that he never had 
done — to be cleaner — to learn faster and he began to grow 
also. His little weazened face filled out, and his eyes grew 
bright. He didn't look so much like Bobby. 

Twice a week the boys went to the doctor's office and they 
took other boys. They had good times there, lantern slides, 
a phonograph, basket ball, and catchy little songs that the doctor 
taught them. They had their own fun also and startled the 
natives in the alley many a time with that, and they had some 
good things to eat ; and without knowing it these boys were being 
taught morality and cleanliness and decency. Billy and Bobby 
were weighed and measured every week and it was a great day 
for Billy when he was found to be an inch taller than Bobby 
and five pounds heavier. Bobby dug his fists in his eyes but 
held to his cigarettes. In the meantime the doctor called upon 
the boys' mother and explained to her his experiment. Poor 
Mary wiped her eyes on her faded apron and said : 

" I'm sure with you sir, and it's a lot of shoes and stockings, 
and the rent paid I'm seeing paid with that money." 

The great day of settlement arrived. Billy had manfully 
stuck to his agreement and now he and Bobby and a score of 
other boys met at the doctor's office for their usual party. But 
it was not a usual party. On the platform stood some scales, 
and a white sheet was stretched across the wall. The doctor 
was a little more quiet than usual ; and the boys soon caught the 
infection. 

This was a great day for the Twins. What was going to be 
done? 



472 THE OLD SCRAP BOOK 

" Boys," began the doctor, " I want you all to sit down and 
listen to me." 

He explained the six months' trial of the boys in a few words, 
and then added: 

" Now here are your little friends — the Cigarette Twins — 
and I am going to place them side by side on this platform. 
When we began this test six months ago, they were exactly the 
same size and weight. Six months has passed. One has 
smoked cigarettes continually, and one has not. Billy and 
Bobby, come up here." 

Diffidently grinning a little, the hoys walked up to the plat- 
form. Billy was already round faced and rosy, and Bobby still 
little and thin and brown. Billy's eyes were bright and clear ; 
Bobby's clouded and bleary. Billy was smiling, Bobby was not ; 
and as the doctor measured them Billy stood fully two inches 
taller. When he placed them on the scales and, wonder of 
wonders ! Billy had gained ten pounds. He bared their arms 
and showed Billy's muscle, and Bobby's poor feeble thin arms. 
He showed the science pictures of boys taken each month, and 
in a few simple words explained the use of the wicked bitter 
weed. 

" For Billy," he said, " I have the greatest admiration. 
That he could conquer a habit, in the face of all his friends 
and even his Twin, for no good coming to himself, but to help 
his mother. I must say I am proud of you, my lad, and because 
I am proud of you I am going to give you this little watch 
engraved ' For highest merit.' " And then, he handed Billy 
the dearest boy's watch and a check for fifty dollars. 

" Now my boy," said the doctor, " you can smoke if you want 
to. Light up ! " 

" Never," sobbed Billy, too much overcome to speak. " I'll 
never while I live, smoke any more. It ain't hard for me now ; 
I'm used to it ; and say, Bob, you little undersized dried up her- 
rin', what's the matter of you comin' over and gettin' bigger, and 
heavier, and nicer like me ? " 

- :" I'm goin' to try, Billy," declared Bob. " It will be hard 
but I'll try." 

" Do so, my boy," urged the doctor, " and if you stick it out 
for six months there'll be a watch for you also." 



LATEE PEOSE WOEKS 473 

From that small beginning Dr. Sinclair dated his life's work. 
He gathered in the boys around him and taught them the evils 
of smoking, and the joys of right living, and then the Boy Scouts 
were organized. Dr. Sinclair's boys stood in the front ranks 
and the Cigarette Twins headed the Honor Eoll. 



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